


Of Magic, Miracles, and Moonlight

by BeautifullyObsessed



Category: Doctor Strange (2016), Doctor Strange Fandom, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Stephen Strange fandom
Genre: Eventual Romance, F/M, Friendship, Kindness, Magic, NSFW, Romance, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-26
Updated: 2018-08-11
Packaged: 2018-11-05 07:46:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 65,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11009052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeautifullyObsessed/pseuds/BeautifullyObsessed
Summary: Doctor Stephen Strange's life has settled into a fulfilling pattern; even as Master of the New York Sanctum, he continues his studies in the mystic arts, self-training with the library that the Ancient One amassed in her years as Sorcerer Supreme. An old alliance forged by the Ancient One brings an unexpected request to him, and he is duty bound to fulfill it. Along the way he meets with some pleasant surprises--and discovers that his heart is not immune to the effects of the gentlest sorts of magic.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [An Unlikely Little Miracle](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10754169) by [BeautifullyObsessed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeautifullyObsessed/pseuds/BeautifullyObsessed). 



“Stephen, it’s nearly time.”

Wong’s voice pulled him from his scrutiny of the thick, weathered tome that had become latest project.  Since the passing of his mentor, the Ancient One, Stephen Strange was one of very few left in Kamar-Taj who made a regular practice of studying the advanced manuscripts, spell books, and obscure histories, which she had amassed during her centuries of service as the Sorcerer Supreme.  His eidetic memory served him equally well in this pursuit, as it had in his previous vocation; as one of the world’s most talented and successful neurosurgeons he had learned the lesson early on—that knowledge was power—though the power he sought now he would wield for a even nobler purpose than those of his previous life.  

“Remind me, Wong…it’s nearly time for…” Stephen let his voice trail off with the question, focusing just a few moments more on the script marking the page before him.

“For the arrival of the emissary from Hadeeth, Stephen,” Wong replied, “As well you know.  Need I remind you that our alliance with Hadeeth goes back nearly four hundred years?”

“Not at all, Wong.  I’m acutely aware—down to the smallest minutiae—of the terms of our accord the with the Hadeethans, having familiarized myself with every scrap of parchment the Ancient One left behind, detailing the particulars of our relationship.”  Strange closed the leather-bound book before him, stretched a mite, and then rubbed thumb and forefinger upon his closed eyelids. “I’ve got a rotten case of eyestrain in the process, but I suppose I’m as ready for this as I can ever be,” he grumbled, “Although I’m not entirely certain why _I_ have to be the one to meet with their envoy.  A Master with _years_ of experience—and not one with barely twelve months--would surely make a better representative of Earth. Let alone Kamar-Taj.”

Refusing to be pulled back into the ongoing debate, Wong remained impassive.  “Of the Masters left in Kamar-Taj, you are the best qualified by virtue of your _life_ experience.  And in the absence of a Sorcerer Supreme, a Master of one of our Sanctums is the best that we can offer.”  He clapped Stephen on the shoulder, “Accept that you’re destined for this bit of diplomacy, Stephen.  It can’t be anywhere near as complicated as navigating your way through the human brain to excise a pin point sized tumor.”

Strange rose to his feet, favoring Wong with a scowl, “As usual, Wong, your vote of confidence is underwhelming—but I _will_ do my best not to provoke a diplomatic incident with an ally that has had Earth’s back for hundreds of years, and in some hairy situations.”

* * *

 

A young attendant placed the tray with fresh-brewed tea and a sampling of Nepalese delicacies on the low table before him.  Without a word, she filled a cup with the hot liquid, and set it down beside the pot, before sliding a plate of almond honey cakes closer at hand to him.  Stephen nodded, murmuring his thanks—though he was a little too nervous to partake of one of his favorite dishes.  Instead, he stirred a bit of honey into his tea, briefly reflecting on the first cup of honeyed tea he had partaken in this very room, barely more than a year ago.  With a shock to his system, he had been quickly educated as to how very much he did _not_ know about the world, the universe, and the human mind and spirit; and since then, he had learned much more than he would ever had imagined of things he’d never even entertained as plausible.  He considered himself a work in progress, truly humbled for the first time in his life, when he took into account how much he still did not know.

Yet, he had earned the respect of his peers here and—just moments before her death--the Ancient One had appointed him Master of the New York Sanctum.  Strange took that responsibility ever seriously, having seen and experienced for himself the sort of assaults from other dimensions which Earth would be prey to were it not for the ancient protections provided by the band of sorcerers, bound in service to mankind.

The man he once was—before the accident that had deprived him of his livelihood, and the purpose by which he defined himself—Doctor Stephen Strange had the hubris to consider himself the best his specialty had ever known, and the ambition to pursue the loftiest positions of influence and power in his field.  Now, as he split his time between New York and Nepal, he was in a constant quest for knowledge that would enable him to do this job to the best of his ability, while never seeking glory for himself.  He would not—could not, in fact—allow himself to aspire to the title of Sorcerer Supreme…although more often than not these days, he was given--by some silent agreement (to which he was no party)--the deference and the responsibilities that came with that designation.  Today, he would prefer to be a mere rank and file mage—but he could not turn his back upon the service that was asked of him.

Stephen rose when Wong appeared in the entrance way, ushering a stately, robed woman into the room.  “Master Strange, allow me to present Mistress Moraine of Clan Kayolo, member of the Hadeethan Ruling Council,” Wong gave her a nod of respect, before moving to Stephen’s side.    

Following the formal protocol which the Ancient One had chronicled, Strange bowed at the waist before speaking.  “Welcome to Kamar-Taj, Mistress Moraine of Hadeeth.  We are honored by your presence, and offer hospitality and friendship to you, and any others under your protection, for however long you sojourn here.”

She bowed in reply, and recited her opening remarks smoothly, her rich voice that of a woman accustomed to oratory, “The honor is mine, Sir.  On behalf of my people, and in the name of our alliance, I accept your hospitality, Master Strange.”  Moraine paused, studying him closely, before adding, “May the worlds we serve continue to benefit from our partnership.”

Strange motioned her to take a seat, then sat himself, while Wong moved forward to pour tea for the Hadeethan woman; the ensuing silence enough to allow Stephen an observation or two.  She was definitely dignified ( _royalty_ was the first word that came to his mind), aloof and otherworldly; she wore her thick, silver hair loose and unadorned, for surely nothing could flatter her more than it’s natural glory; and the only subtle sign of age he could discern, were small crinkles at the corners of her pale grey eyes--but since he knew the average Hadeethan lifespan was upwards of 150 Earth years, they gave no clue regarding her actual age.  There was a palpable feel of strength of will about her, as though her spine were made of steel.  Moraine appeared—in short—to be a power to be reckoned with.  He vowed to tread carefully regarding whatever topic she had arrived to discuss.

She sipped her tea, then nodded her approval, “Ah…it’s been far too long since I sampled this welcoming taste of Kamar-Taj.  Though I regret I shall never raise my cup with the Ancient One again.”

“Her loss remains a heavy one for us to bear, Mistress Moraine,” he replied, a truth he felt most keenly every day, “And nothing would make me happier than for her to be here in my place.”

“I bear the condolences of my people for the dread passing of a wise leader and constant ally,” she told him, “And for myself, I share in your grief; for I had known the Sorcerer Supreme from my youth—as a teacher, then a mentor, and at the last, a friend.”

“I envy you that,” he admitted, “We all miss her guidance—but we have done our best to go forward as we believe she would see fit.”

Moraine narrowed her eyes, looking for the truth in his reaction, “And you do not seek to guide in her place?  To bear the mantle she wore for centuries?”

Stephen shook his head vehemently, “I assure you, I am _not_ that man.  And honestly, I can’t think of anyone who could fill her shoes.”

She nodded, pleased with his reply, than raised her cup.  “It is always so with the best of leaders.  May we all do her proud in the service we provide to our worlds.”

“May we indeed,” he echoed, drinking from his cup as well.

* * *

 

Formalities now aside, Moraine was swift to reveal the surprising purpose of her visit.  “I come on a personal matter, Master Strange.  ‘Tis my hope you will entertain my request, if not for the sake of relations between our worlds, but for she whom we both miss.”

“I am certain we can accommodate you, Mistress Moraine.  The resources of Kamar-Taj are at your service.” 

“Even as I had anticipated,” she asserted, wearing a small relieved smile, “As you may know, Hadeeth has a good share of practitioners of the mystic arts.  And in our culture, this is a thing well-known, even aspired to.  In fact, by long standing tradition, the majority of those who sit on our ruling council are skilled in magic.”

Strange nodded, having gleaned those facts from the Ancient One’s notes, “Magic being the primary reason our worlds are well-suited as allies.”

Moraine bobbed her head in a brief acknowledgement, then continued, “On Hadeeth, we have found that the aptitude for magic, and the strength to wield it properly, are most prevalent in certain bloodlines.  As a result, it is not uncommon for a particular clan to hold a council seat for several generations.”

“I take it that is your own experience,” he inferred.

“It is, Master Strange.  But seats are not granted automatically—and those aspiring to them must pass a series of tests, unique to the individual.”

“And these tests involve the use of magic?”

“Exactly so—and thus arises my need for your assistance,” she admitted.

A bit perplexed, he might’ve asked, but Moraine had anticipated his question.  “Not for myself, Master Strange—for my daughter, Teyla.”  And then surprising him, she added, “A daughter of both our worlds.”

Not having known such a mingling of their races was even possible, it took a moment for him to respond, “You’re asking that we train her here, in Kamar-Taj?”

Moraine’s face took on a pleasant sort of softness, clear sign of the depth of her feelings for her child.  “She has ever been my greatest treasure, and from the moment in which I discerned that she possessed aptitude for the mystical arts, I had planned to entrust my own best teacher with her tutelage.”  She lowered her eyes, her voice become sorrow-tinged, “Who could have anticipated that such a plan would go unrealized?”

Stephen remained speechless, moved by her quiet show of grief.  In the months since the Ancient One fell, he had learned things about her he had never expected—always making him long for the fruits of the wisdom she might have shared with him.

Having set aside her sorrow, Moraine looked to him again, firm of purpose, “Teyla’s skill--her strength—lies in the healing of body, mind, and heart.  And though this ability is a miracle in itself, it does not suit well the sort of trials she is likely to face in the fullness of time.”

The doctor in him wanted to ask more of Hadeethan healing magic, but the situation would not allow for it—though he made a promise to himself to learn more of their practices when possible, with an eye towards the exchange of knowledge that might enable him to fulfill again that purpose of more than half his lifetime.  “What training would best prepare your daughter for these future trials?”

Moraine looked please at his show of willingness, “She will need to develop defensive skills, for both her own safety, and for those who may someday fall under her protection.”  She paused, gauging his reaction, and then concluded, “Teyla also possesses a small degree of prescience, although she is not yet capable of employing it at will.  She dreams, yet cannot tell when the images may come to pass; she has strong, yet unpredictable, flashes of intuition, which she finds difficult to interpret.  This gift is useless to her until she can cultivate the proper wisdom and discipline.”

“There are no teachers on Hadeeth that might guide her?” he asked, “Seers are rare, even in Kamar-Taj.  I can’t guarantee our knowledge is enough to guide her beyond the most rudimentary training.”

“They are rarer still, on Hadeeth,” Moraine shrugged, “So rare they come but a handful of times in each generation.  Though I am her mother, I haven’t even a touch of that gift.”   

Stephen nodded, considering her request a moment.  “We will do our best, Mistress Moraine—but in this case, I can make no promise.”

“I understand, Master Strange.  And with this understanding, I will entrust _you_ with Teyla’s further education.  For the sake of our alliance,” she reminded him, “And for all the hopes a parent has for their child’s safety and happiness.”

* * *

 

They had concluded their meeting by settling upon three Earth days as the interval until Teyla would arrive at Kamar-Taj.  “Of course, we’ll need to see what magic your daughter is already capable of, before we proceed with any training plan,” he cautioned her, as he and Wong escorted her back to the courtyard for her departure.  “Please be sure she understands what lies ahead.”

“Oh, she is already more than prepared for that,” Moraine told him gratefully, “And she has spent a share of time on Earth--living with her father for several years--so you should find she will easily acclimate to your world.”  With that, she drew on her sling ring—the magical tool which the Ancient One had shared with the Hadeethans, in consideration of their partnership—and conjured a portal back to her home world.  Stephen could discern very little of what lay on the other side; a room half lit with what could be daylight, vague shapes that were likely Hadeethan furniture.

Moraine turned his way, and bowed low, and then rose to meet his eye.  “Please keep in mind, Master Strange, that some of the tests Teyla may come to face are dangerous.  I beg you to see she is properly prepared to survive, beyond the training I have already given her.  I will be in your debt, and Earth’s, for the remainder of my days—and look forward to the day when I can be of service to your world, in return.”  She stepped into the portal, and raised her hand in farewell, closing the circle before he could utter a word in reply.

“Well, this should prove interesting,” Wong observed, “How much experience do you have dealing with teenagers?”

“Barely to none,” Stephen confessed, “And I hadn’t counted on being asked to play a schoolmaster to a rookie sorcerer.”

Wong chuckled, amused at Strange’s befuddlement, “I’m thinking diplomacy will turn out to be child’s play, compared to the task you have ahead of you.”

“Yes,” Steven agreed grimly, heading back to the library to continue his studies of earlier. “And I’d much rather be navigating my way through the human brain, then babysit an angsty adolescent.”


	2. Chapter 2

The figure that emerged from the multi-dimensional portal three days later, was far from the carbon copy of her mother that Stephen Strange had expected.

Though similarly robed, any resemblance between the two women appeared to end there.  Where Moraine of Hadeeth was stately and striking, and possessed of an unearthly sort of beauty, her daughter Teyla seemed to be plain, simple and unassuming.  Pale-skinned, with light brown hair that hung limply past her shoulders, her shapeless robe appeared to hide a slight frame, and her sandaled feet were nearly as small as a child’s—yet her face informed him that she was perhaps a decade older than he had anticipated. 

Stephen opened his mouth, about to speak a word of welcome, but she had turned back to the portal, taking a last look at whatever—or whomever—she had left behind.  She remained with her back to him, until the circle closed; in its wake, she bowed her head a moment, and then squared her shoulders, readjusting the straps of the large, cleverly woven bag that she bore upon her back.  Finally facing him, Teyla gave a formal little bow, but the weight of her basket shifted, nearly upsetting her balance, so that Stephen had to lunge forward to catch a hold of her arm before she fell.

“Th…th…thank you, Sir,” she managed, sounding shy and more than a little embarrassed, “I…I think I can manage it now.”  Her speech had a slight lilt to it, reminding him that English was not her native tongue.  Teyla kept her eyes lowered as she worked to regain her composure.

Stephen released her, backing up a few steps, frowning at the unavoidable need to abruptly invade her personal space.  “You’re welcome, Miss…”  What should he call her?  _Miss_ Teyla might sound a bit awkward—but Mistress surely didn’t fit; he settled on changing the subject, helpfully suggesting, “Why don’t you set that down?  I can have someone collect it for you later, and leave it in your quarters.”

She nodded, and murmured her thanks again, allowing the basket to slide from her shoulders, onto the ground.  She took a deep breath, bracing herself to address him, and finally met his eyes.  “You are Master Strange, I take it?”  Teyla spoke softly, quietly contrite, “Please forgive my clumsiness.  I am normally not such a…klutz.” 

Despite the initial awkwardness between them, Stephen smiled at her use of the Earth colloquialism.  Surprise colored her soft brown eyes, as if she had expected a stern reaction to her artlessness.  Though her face was rather ordinary ( _and so unlike her mother’s_ , he mused again) her widened, doe-like eyes, shaded by a thick fringe of lashes, were lovely—and very expressive.  At the moment, they made her seem a little sad ( _perhaps she is_ , he thought, _in leaving her familiar world behind_ ), the total effect softening what might otherwise seem plain--and stirring him to a bit of sympathy.  

“No need to apologize,” he told her kindly, “And you are very welcome here, in Kamar-Taj.”

A little smile crept upon the corners of her mouth, “I thank you for your hospitality and kindness, Master Strange.”  A bit of confidence restored, she offered him her right hand, in another show of familiarity with the customs of her father. “I am Teyla of Hadeeth—but I suppose you know that already,” she shrugged, diffident but clearly well-mannered.

Stephen reached to shake her hand, and as their hands met, she breathed in sharply.  Though it often nettled him to see strangers’ reactions to his scars, he had learned to let it pass unanswered—unless they outright gawked.  Telya’s grasp was light, so he guessed she might be concerned a firmer hold would cause him pain.  She studied their hands together, flipping them a bit so she could see the back of his.  He swore he heard her whisper, ‘ _oh…they ar_ e _yours_ ’, before she looked up to study his face, shock and curiosity evident upon her simple features. 

“Pardon me.”  Brusquely, he withdrew his hand, having tempered his statement with a bit of latitude—as rude as her reaction seemed, he believed no ill had been intended.  “An old injury,” he added, “And one that brought me to Kamar-Taj.  In the greater scheme of things, these scars have no bearing on the work we do here—but I would ask you, kindly, not to stare.”

“Of…of course, Master Strange.”  Teyla bowed her head, embarrassed again at her _faux pas_ , “I meant no disrespect, Sir.”

Stephen nodded, certain of her sincerity, and ready to move along to more important things.  “Well then…your mother has tasked us with furthering your education in the mystic arts.”  She nodded, so that he continued, “But before we proceed, we need to evaluate what skills you have mastered.”

“Yes.  Yes, I understand.”  She had visibly brightened at the change of topic.  “My mother told me it would be so.”

“Good.  Excellent, in fact,” he replied, adopting the not so welcome role as mentor, “We have several Masters in residence, and I have made arrangements for you to see them.  No rush, so if you need some time to get your bearings here…”

“No, that will not be necessary, Master Strange,” she told him eagerly, “I am prepared for whatever tests you have planned.”

“Alright then—if you would follow me,” Stephen motioned to the archway to his right, “We’ll get you started right away.”

* * *

 

Stephen had left his charge in one of the smaller practice rooms, allowing for Masters of the various disciplines to put her through her paces without unnecessary distractions.  As he knew himself _not_ to be as expert in some disciplines as his peers, he thought it best to rely on their judgement, rather than assess Teyla himself; and a variety of opinions would certainly provide a more complete appraisal of her overall skill level and potential, than that of a single teacher.  Wong soon joined Strange in the Sanctuary Room, to wait for the Masters to report their findings.

The results were mixed, but at least gave Stephen a handle on where they needed to concentrate their efforts.  Teyla had managed a portal, after some effort, marking her halfway between a Novice and an Adept.  She handily moved--even levitated-- small objects, and did so with very little effort.  But she had no training in hand-to-hand combat, and no skill—or seeming interest—in conjuring weapons, let alone items she might use in self-defense _.  Exactly the skills her mother hoped we would foster in her_ , Steven concluded, _and therein lies our challenge_.

On the upside, Master Salma had been astounded at Teyla’s ability to read people’s emotional states; she reported that the young Hadeethan’s skill was well beyond any that she had encountered since becoming Master of that discipline.  “She doesn’t even require _physical_ contact to accurately read someone; she worked wonders just in the _proximity_ of the test subjects,” she informed Strange, visibly excited at the discovery, “And when I placed several objects on a table across the room from her, Teyla successfully read how each item had been last used, by the emotional residue left behind by the user.  Allowing her to handle the objects enabled her to pick up on further details— _beyond_ the most recent user.”

“Incredible.  Could you tell if her abilities were innate, or the product of some intensive training?”  If the later, Stephen believed it would be worth an exchange of knowledge with the Hadeethans to develop such a program for Kamar-Taj.

Salma shook her head, “Best I can tell is she’s a natural empath—and someone must have recognized it in her early on, because her skills are off the charts.”

“That good, eh?”

“Frankly, her abilities far surpass anything Kamar-Taj has seen in a student _or_ a teacher in…well, centuries,” Salma grinned, “When time allows, I’d love to see what she can do reading someone from another room.”

Strange took a moment, mulling over the new information.  “Hmm…sounds to me like she should be teaching us, rather than us training her.”

“We could see about that--eventually,” Salma replied wryly, “Though I’m not ready to be replaced _quite_ yet, Stephen.  But for now, there _are_ a few things we can do to help her foster and refine her skills.”

“Such as?”

“Well, one of the pitfalls of this sort of empathy is a kind of…bleed, if you will--when reading in especially intense situations--which can influence and effect the empath’s own emotional health and mental state.  But that _is_ something we can help her with,” she revealed confidently, “We can show her how to screen out those things that might impair objectivity of mind—and the things that could play havoc with her heart.”

Stephen nodded, satisfied with the thoroughness of her assessment.  “One thing, though, Master Salma.  Teyla’s mother charged us with building on her daughter’s raw ability for divination—or at least giving her some guidance in its practical use.”

Salma shook her head, “I wish I had better to offer her, but all we can manage right now is an education in dream _interpretation_.  Beyond that is territory that few here have any experience with.”  She bobbed her head in a small bow, “Now if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen—I’ve a group of Adepts awaiting _my_ guidance this afternoon.” 

“Of course—and thank you, Salma.  You’ve given us much to think about.”   

Strange watched her leave, considering their limited options, and then looked to Wong, “There must be something in our library, or in the Ancient One’s collection, that we can use to give this young woman the instruction she needs.”

“There are,” Wong offered, “Dusty old scrolls, arcane texts--that seldom see the light of day.  You’ll have some heavy reading to do to bring yourself up to speed, Stephen.” 

“I hope you’re joking, Wong,” Strange replied, “I _can’t_ be the best man for the job.”

“I’m afraid so.  You’re the quickest study we’ve got,” Wong chuckled, enjoying the irony that’s Strange’s strengths had him cornered, “And that unbeatable memory of yours is bound to come in handy.” 

Stephen frowned, sighing hard as he recognized the futility of any protest he might make, “I’m not getting out of this one, am I?”

“Nope.”  Wong favored him with a rare smile, “I’ll have those texts ready for you by the end of the day.”  He laughed quietly to himself, leaving Stephen behind, muttering under his breath.

* * *

 

Stephen looked up at the sound of gentle rapping, to see Teyla pop her head through the entryway of the Sanctuary Room.  “Hello?  Master Strange?  You summoned me?”  Patiently, she waited in place for him to acknowledge her.

“Yes,” he stood and motioned her forward, “Please—have a seat.”  Again, her appearance was not as he’d anticipated; she had changed from her Hadeethan robe into an over-sized tee shirt and well-worn denim leggings, and had pulled her hair back into a ponytail.  The look knocked at least a half a dozen years from her age.  Now, she looked like a typical freshman from any American university—and though her alien heritage was equal to her human blood, for a few moments she was like an unexpected taste of home. 

He couldn’t suppress a grin as she neared him, “Blue Oyster Cult.  Nice.”

“Oh…yes,” she replied, surprised at his reference, “Do you know of them, Master Strange?”

“I do indeed,” he nodded.  “In fact, they were a part of the…” Stephen chuckled at the memories, “…soundtrack of my youth.”

“I have enjoyed their poetry at times, although it is often quite somber—but they were among my father’s favorite performance groups.”  Her admission was a pleasant surprise.  Teyla took a seat across from him.  “This garment was my father’s,” her voice grew soft with sentimentality, “He made a gift of it to me, at our last parting.  I do not wear it publically on Hadeeth—there are those on my home world who lack tolerance regarding my patrimony.”  She shrugged shyly, and smiled—though Stephen noted it did not reach her eyes.

“I take it that it’s been some time since you’ve seen him,” he prompted her, curious as to the time she’d spent on Earth.

She took a breath, seeming to do a calculation before she answered, “Why yes…it’s been…hmm…nearly six Earth years.  But I hope to find some time to visit him, once my training here is complete.”

“Well then, we will do our best to move things along so that you can do that as soon as possible.”  Her smile in reply was far more sincere than her last, leaving Stephen glad to have given her the cause.  “So,” he continued, getting down to the most important business at hand, “Ideally, your training here will involve several disciplines; defensive spells, and the conjuring of defensive tools, as well as helping you to control and tap into your gift for divination.”  She looked down at the mention of the later, as though uncomfortable with the topic—and when she raised her eyes, he could swear she was looking at his hands again.  He shook it off, telling himself he was being overly self-conscious due to her blunder at their initial meeting.

“And healing spells,” she asked, “That way my future lies--so they would be the most welcome lesson of all.”

Healing.  That had been his life and his own future, once upon a time—and though he could never return to those days, Stephen would forever think of himself as Doctor, before any other title he would ever bear.  He appreciated that such a vocation was her top priority.

“We will offer what we can, Teyla.  Though the bulk of your time will be spent working towards proficiency in those elements that are the backbone of the mystic arts.

“As my mother wills it,” she replied, resigned to the plan that Moraine had intended for her.

“Yes,” he nodded, “And beginning in the morning, you will have a minimum two hours training, daily, in physical defense and combat…”

“No…wait…there is no need for that.”  Teyla’s humble, placid expression dissolved into a stubborn mien.  “My work is as a healer.  I thought you understood this…”

“Yes,” he replied again, holding up one hand to signal her to quiet a moment and allow for an explanation, “Please, Teyla—there are sound reasons for this…”

Though her eyes flashed defiantly, she pursed her lips into silence, ceding the moment to him.  Stephen continued, calling on what skill for diplomacy was his, “I promise you will understand this necessity as you advance in your education here.  Concentrating first on developing physical discipline is a stepping stone to nurturing mental discipline.  Master your body, and the path is clear to master your mind.”  Stephen paused, watching her expression soften, pleased that he was getting his message across to her.  “Once you have mastered mental discipline, you can achieve nearly anything, as long as you have the will for it.”

Teyla sighed hard, and rolled her eyes ( _damn, that’s a purely_ human _habit_ , he thought, trying not to smile at how much it made her look like an impatient teenager), “As you say, Master Strange.”  She tilted her head, offering an apology, “Please forgive my rash words, Sir.  I only just…well, you see, I feel my purpose so strongly, and any delay is a source of frustration.  I promise I will do, faithfully, whatever is required of me to complete my training.”

Stephen leaned across the table, seeking to put her at ease.  “I understand your passion, Teyla of Hadeeth.  Would you believe I’ve felt the same myself?”  Her eyes went wide as she listened.  “I was…I am…a healer myself.  A doctor.  My specialty was neurosurgery.  I spent half my life studying, learning, training, searching for greater knowledge, because I knew without a doubt that these hands were meant _precisely_ for that work.”  He held them up to her, making no effort to conceal their shaking, let alone the painful map of scars that symbolized all that he had lost, “ _These_ hands, Teyla, worked medical miracles; I helped thousands to lead better, longer lives.  I know the desire to heal, and I know the sweet satisfaction of that service done well.  But I never would have reached that pinnacle without the beginning baby steps.  Trust me when I say, you _will_ get there.”

Teyla’s soft, doe-eyes had misted up as he told his story.  He hadn’t meant to make her feel sorry for him—never, _never_ did he intend that with anyone in this new life.  He only needed to make his point clear.  Stephen would have spoken more, but that she took his took one of his hands, studying it even more intently than when they’d shaken hands in the courtyard.  “I understand…Doctor.  Doctor Strange.”  She smiled sadly, “You have lived through much, to come to this place.  But your journey has been worth the cost.” She released his hand—which tingled warmly afterwards—and told him, “I will follow whatever path you deem most wise, Doctor Strange.  I will put my future in your hands.”  She rose, and made a little bow, bidding him goodnight.         

Stephen sat in silence a while longer, considering the puzzle Teyla presented.  She seemed soft and unassuming, yet she spoke her mind without compunction.  She had a share of unexpected wisdom for her age (although he actually wasn’t even sure yet, how old she was), and she was passionate about her purpose in life.  He had to respect that—and that her heart seemed bent toward service to others, made him like her even more.  He found he didn’t dread so much, the research he would have to put in to help her refine her divination skills; perhaps he’d even learn a thing or two that might be of use to him someday.

Wong—ever true to his word—had sent a selection of scrolls and texts to Stephen’s room, so that the eager student in him couldn’t resist getting a start in researching the rare art he was obliged to tutor Teyla in.  He read for about an hour—until his eyes were bleary—making mental notes of key ideas he would revisit when his mind was fresher.  All the while, though, his thoughts would drift back to those final moments of their conversation.  How Teyla had responded so sympathetically to his story; how she had taken his hand.  Under normal circumstances, he would have found that far too familiar, especially on so short of an acquaintance—yet she had breached that personal barrier so gently, he hadn’t even thought to protest.

Only when he’d set his head upon his pillow and closed his eyes, winding down to sleep, did the realization hit him.  Master Salma had told him the young woman was an empath of extraordinary skill—and that’s exactly what she’d done to him.  She’d read his feelings as casually as one might read a street sign; read his feelings and understood with a kind of quiet intimacy, his struggle.  And when she touched his hand, he was willing to bet she gained some understanding of the physical cost his accident had wreaked upon him.  Stephen wasn’t quite sure how to feel about it; it wasn’t an intentional violation of his privacy, and certainly she’d meant no harm.  In fact, he wondered if that warm tingle her touch had left behind was some trace of healing magic—and if so, was it even _possible_ that she could offer some relief to him, when he had long accepted that he and the lingering pain of his damaged hands were meant to be lifetime companions.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Please forgive any spelling & grammar errors; I'm pressed for time and need to post this before I lose wifi connection for the night!)

Normally, Masters conducted training in a variety of disciplines, in the main courtyard, or in the smaller open air spaces of the Kamar-Taj complex, regardless of the weather--for sorcerers-in-training required preparation enough to utilize their skills in unpredictable or adverse conditions.  Even during monsoon season, this policy was seldom suspended, with the occasional rare exception; and by long-standing tradition, outdoor sessions were canceled only at the discretion of The Ancient One.  Since her loss, such a situation had not yet arisen—so it was inevitable that such should fall in a week where Stephen was in residence there, far from his place as Master of the New York Sanctum.

From June through early September, Kathmandu saw rain daily, with intermittent evening thunderstorms.  Steven Strange felt every day of that rain as a heightened ache in nearly every joint of his hands.  He hadn’t needed to check Doppler radar online to know that a doozey of a storm was headed their way; he’d felt the drop in barometric pressure several hours in advance, and the damp in the air announced itself spectacularly in a persistent, bone-deep throb that did it’s best to distract him from every task he set himself to.  Adding insult to injury, his tremors had intensified to the point of equaling those of the beginning months of his recovery.  Meditation helped to some extent, but the discomfort remained a constant, like white noise in the background as he moved throughout his day.  He kept to himself most of the day, focusing in the later hours on preparing himself to meet with Teyla for their first “lesson”, scheduled after the evening meal.

The winds lashed the rain against his back, while he crossed a courtyard lit by the flash of lightning, the peal of thunder distant enough to inform him that the worst of the storm had finally passed overhead.  She was waiting for him in the library, as they’d arranged, engrossed in a text he recognized from his own early studies, and scribbling notes in a hand that would rival the worst of any doctors’ that he’d known.     

Stephen cleared his throat to announce his arrival, but Teyla’s eyes remained cast upon the book in front of her.  “Come here often?” he quipped, vying for her attention, swiftly realizing she probably wouldn’t get the humor of that old, banal pick-up line.  He set his rucksack on the table, then took the seat opposite her.

She looked up with a start, then smiled sheepishly, “I’m sorry, Doctor Strange—I got a little lost doing the translation here.”  She slid the book across the table to him.  “It’s the third passage down.  I can’t tell if it’s _require_ or _recommend_.”

He read the passage through, recalling the difficulties for Novices, of translating Sanskrit on sight—made doubly hard, he reckoned, as she might need to translate it first to English, and then into Hadeethan.  “It’s ‘ _pay no_ _heed to’_ ,” he told her, pointing to several words proceeding it, “You need to look at it in context to get the true meaning.”  He slid the book back to her.

“Oh—of course!  Now it makes sense.” She crossed the incorrect word off her notes, than laid her pencil down, “Thank you, Doctor.  I have been stuck a while, trying to work it out.”

Strange reached into his rucksack and pulled his tablet out.  “I’ve found _this_ indispensable for translating ancient languages—saves a helluva lot of time.”  He handed it to Teyla, who looked immediately perplexed by the device.  “I don’t suppose you’ve got one of these,” he asked.  She shook her head solemnly.  “Okayyyyy—well how about I leave this with you for the evening?  It’ll make the hours ahead much more productive for you.”

“That is very kind of you, Doctor Strange, although…well…I have no idea how this thing…”

“This _tablet_ ,” he told her.

“Oh. This…tablet.  I have no skill with such a tool.”  She offered it back to him.

“Well, this one isn’t difficult at all.  Let me run through its functions for you, and I’ll bet you’ll be breezing through it in no time.”

Stephen went over the basics, and then showed her how to access various websites pertinent to her studies, including a translation site that he had relied on to get him through his early training.  Once she got over her initial distrust of the technology as a sufficient aid for study, Teyla adapted readily, and proved to have a defter hand with it than he had anticipated   


Next, he removed several books from his pack and set two of them in front of her. “Now, these texts provide an introduction to clairvoyance and divination.  I want you to take some time over the next couple of days, read them through.”  Teyla picked one up, and then the other, running her fingers across the titles embossed on the covers.  “I’ve bookmarked some sections that I think have a direct bearing on what we’re trying to accomplish here,” he told her, “And if you feel ready, I encourage you to try what exercises you find worth your efforts.”

“I will do my best,” she nodded, “Master Salma said I will be mapping unchartered territory.”  She looked down, quietly admitting, “I find it all…very…intimidating.”

“No one will be judging you, Teyla.”  She met his eyes at that, searching for assurances.  “I promise,” he added, “And if we’re lucky, Kamar-Taj will learn as much from you, and you from us.”

Relief dawned first in her eyes, and then spread softly across her face, “I must admit my mentors on Hadeeth were frustrated when they could not provide teaching enough for me to harness and refine my raw ability for divination.  I pray that your efforts to guide me will not be a waste of _your_ valuable time.”

“No effort to teach is wasted when the student is sincere in their desire to learn,” he assured her, his voice low and persuasive, “And that is something I’ve learned as both a student _and_ a teacher myself—and not just of the mystics arts.  My medical training was more than a decade long process.”

Strange pulled a plain, leather bound book and pen from the side pocket of his rucksack, “One of the simplest things you can do is keep a record of your dreams.  The texts advise you do so nightly—or at least as often as you are able to recall your dreams upon awakening.”  He slid the items across the table to her.  “Whatever details you can remember without concentrating too hard—otherwise your waking mind will try to add definition to things that don’t make sense…”

Teyla nodded, growing excited, “Why yes—immediately record the images and the events of my dreams.  How have I not thought of this myself!  To keep a…a dream…”

“…journal,” they finished together.  She grinned at him, “Your wisdom has already surpassed that of my Hadeethan teachers.”

He chuckled, “As much as I’d like to, I can’t take credit for the idea, Teyla; it’s a basic beginning in most of these texts.  Keep in mind, your best results will come from writing down your first thoughts, no matter how confusing or jumbled they may be.  Don’t give your mind a chance to filter or rearrange them in a search for meaning.”

“Yes, yes,” she murmured, “I understand…”

“And your _feelings_ , Teyla.  How you felt throughout the dream—and how you feel upon awakening.  Even if you wake mid-dream, or in the middle of the night,” he stressed, “Write it down.  This should help us see patterns in your dreaming, and eventually enable you to distinguish normal dreams from the prophetic ones.”

And there it was:  that light in her eyes and upon her face that reminded him of the simple _joy_ of having an avenue of learning open up before him.  As exacting as his medical studies had been, there had always been the deep satisfaction of just _knowing_ he was on the path to knowledge _meant_ for him.  And again as he began his studies at Kamar-Taj.  As a physician, Stephen had seen that light from time to time, in his best student interns—and had forgotten it could be equally satisfying to the teacher who invoked it in their charges.  From a task he’d initially dreaded, he was suddenly glad the situation had forced him to become Teyla’s mentor.

* * *

Pleased that he had actually given Teyla something concrete in the way of guidance, Stephen asked how she was faring in her other training.  Though she maintained that she would have no need for the physical defensive skills when she returned to Hadeeth, she admitted she was impressed watching the Masters of those disciplines at work—and that she felt every moment of her own workouts in the aching muscles that followed in the aftermath.

“Oh yes, they can hurt like hell the first week or so,” he laughed, “But I guarantee you’ll feel fitter than you have in your whole life by the end of the second.”   

Eventually, their conversation made its way back to the subject of her studies with Stephen.  “The texts I’ve read so far--I have to admit that they’ve left me curious, Teyla.  Would you _mind_ telling me what it’s like?”

“The…the dreams?”  She seemed surprised he had asked so plainly.

“Yes.  How do they work, exactly?”

Her face scrunched and her eyes took on a faraway look as she considered how to answer.  “The dreams have always been with me, as…as far back as my memory goes.  As a child, I had _no_ idea they were any different from the dreams of others—and so I found no need to speak of them aloud.”

Quietly, Stephen prompted her, “So when did you realize that they _were_ different?”

Teyla’s voice and manner grew solemn as her recollection came to life.  “I was…hmmm…seven years of age.  Seven Earth years.  And I had dreamed a dream for three nights straight—of my closest friend, Meandra.  It was a simple dream, and I had no inclination to question it.”  She closed her eyes, enrapt in the pictures her mind created.  “Meandra slept beneath a midnight, moonlit sky.  Fast asleep; she lay upon a bed of moss beside a small creek.”  Her mouth drew into a small, fleeting smile.  “My child’s mind believed the dream arose from anticipation of a nature walk our teacher had promised to us.  I would _never_ have guessed it was a dream of warning.”

“Teyla,” he murmured, “Whatever happened, I’m sure you shouldn’t have blamed yourself.”

She sighed and looked back to him.  “Child that I was, it could not be helped.  When Meandra wandered away from the group, nobody noticed until we prepared to leave the forest.  The adults searched well into the night, but found no sign of her.  We all feared that she was lost to us.”

Stephen remained silent, considering the weight of guilt she may have borne, and at so tender an age.  Seeing his concern, Teyla shook her head, “No, good Doctor, it was not a fatal loss—though if I had been less afraid, I might have ended everyone’s woes all the sooner.”  She shrugged, and cast her eyes away shamefully, “Through a bitter night, I struggled with my fear that a simple word of warning might have spared Meandra losing her way.  And even worse, I fretted that through my dreams, I had worked some sort of dark magic as I slept, which might have cost my friend her life.”

Compelled by sympathy, Stephen took her hand—gingerly, for the continuing discomfort in his own.  “You were just a girl; surely no one could expect more of you,” he reminded her, “I hope someone was wise enough to tell you so.”

“Indeed,” she nodded, “With the dawn, I sought my mother out, and revealed my dreadful secret.  She bid me wait but a little, so that she could give the searchers a description of where Meandra might be found—and when she returned to me, she gave me only love and comfort.”  Teyla’s pretty eyes were soft with that memory.  “Meandra was not _too_ worse for wear, and was swiftly reunited with her family.  And after I had rested a while—still afraid to sleep, lest I might dream dreadfully—Mother explained the nature of my gift.  She called it a blessing, and told me it promised a noble destiny if I could learn to use it for the good of my people.”

Resisting the urge to tell Teyla that laying such a charge on a seven year old was extremely poor parenting, Stephen ventured a guess, “I suppose she feels you’ve come of age to fulfill that destiny?”    

“Even so,” she admitted, “But know, good Doctor, that this is my hope as well.”

“Of course,” he told her, “I would expect no less.”  Strange withdrew his hand from hers, beginning to gather up the few materials which he now judged too elementary for Teyla to find of use.  He winced as he lifted one of the heavier volumes, cursing under his breath as he lost his grip and it landed on the table; the thud echoed through the quiet of the library.

Teyla met his eyes for only seconds, but he read her clear understanding in that brief moment, before she looked to his hands.  There was no hiding the tremor in them, but he tried to make light of the moment; sighing with feigned exasperation, “I need to remember this sort of heavy reading requires _both_ hands to be effective.”  His self-deprecation fell short of lightening the moment.

“It is the rain, is it not,” she asked cautiously, although Stephen was sure she knew the answer already.  Teyla’s eyes lingered once again upon his hands, as though committing the network of scars to memory.

“Yes,” he shrugged, downplaying the degree of his discomfort, “Nature’s little way of keeping me humble.”

“Yet the magic you have worked with them is already legend among the students here.”  She smiled at his surprise, “Did you not know?”

Stephen clucked his tongue, “Yeah…well…legends are usually half exaggeration anyway.  At least here on Earth.  You should take those stories with a grain of salt, Teyla.”

“As you wish, Doctor Strange—but their unstinting admiration of your deeds is genuine.”  Demurely, she cast her eyes away and added, “A true hero I have heard you called; one who single-handedly battled one of the darkest forces in the multi-verse.”

Stephen waved her praise off (the simple movement enough to set the joints in that hand throbbing again), “Honestly, Teyla—I only did what any Master here would do if faced with such a catastrophic threat.”

The tilt of her head and her sympathetic little smile spoke her response well enough, leaving Strange feeling a bit self-conscious.  Standing up to leave, he would have changed the subject, but that she asked after his hands again.  Irritated at her dogged attention to his private pain, he tried his best to answer impassively, “I appreciate your concern, Teyla of Hadeeth, but this is a topic I’d rather not discuss.”

“Forgive me please, Doctor Strange.  I would not, for all the world, bring you further pain in this regard.”  Teyla bit her lip, looking uncertain for several moments.  “Please, do not be angry—but as we have discussed my dreams—and as I am under your tutelage in this regard--there is something I must share with you.”  

Between the fresh flare of pain in both his hands—and Teyla’s seeming obsession with his wounds—Stephen’s patience was nearly frayed; he inhaled sharply, “What _must_ you share, that cannot wait for another day?”

The young woman from another world blinked several times, her eyes misted over with unshed tears.  “It is only that…that…”

“Yes,” he asked through gritted teeth.

“I have dreamt of your hands, Doctor.  And not only since I arrived at Kamar-Taj.”  Visibly trembling, Teyla rose from her seat, to face him squarely across the cold distance between them, “I have dreamt your hands many times over, from the day I came to Earth to live with my father…and in the ten Earth years since.”

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

Despite relaxation exercises meant to clear his mind and free his body from worldly stresses, sleep eluded Stephen for hours, in the wake of Teyla’s startling disclosure.  A good part of his unease was due to the growing realization that he had over reacted to her confession—and that he owed her an apology come daylight.

Initially, he’d been dumbfounded to discover that Teyla--stranger that she was--had been aware of his devastating loss, before they’d even met.  For nearly a _decade_ before they had met.  His shock had quickly turned to anger at the idea of a total stranger quietly carrying that vital, unspoken knowledge around, well before his accident had occurred--as though somehow she might have crossed his path and given him fair warning in the interim, thus enabling him to avoid such a cruel outcome.

Stephen hadn’t snapped at her, but had grown cold and terse with Teyla, restraining himself from angrily lashing out.  Considering it in the hours since, it occurred to him that she must have been well aware—powerful empath that she was--of his ire; both for her knowing, and for the notion that his fate had been somehow predetermined.  Her eyes had filled with sorrow, for surely she had sensed his unspoken hostility—and the portion of blame that he had thoughtlessly, albeit silently, laid at her feet.  His mind had even fleetingly considered the idea that somehow her dreaming had conjured his unfortunate fate—the most foolish of notions.  If she had read that from him—and in light of the childhood memory she had just shared with him—he realized that had to have stung Teyla doubly worse.  As he had turned to leave the library, she had bowed her head to hide the tears his reaction had evoked.

The man he’d been before Kamar-Taj would likely not have noticed that he had hurt the young woman—or _if_ he’d taken note, he would have dismissed it as unimportant, and certainly not worth his valuable time to even contemplate offering an apology.  Single-minded and driven he had been, selfish even, as he pursued knowledge and honed his skills, rising to the top of his profession; arrogant too, as he achieved unparalleled expertise, shedding common niceties without compunction when they proved a distraction from his goals.  His mind having been awakened by his studies and extraordinary experiences in the mystic arts eventually enlightened his soul to his past callous, egoistic behaviors, leaving him appropriately humbled—and desirous of being a better man in _all_ matters.

Teyla had clearly deserved better of him, and he knew that he _must_ make amends.  Having resolved to seek her out first thing in the morning, Stephen finally found peace of mind enough to sleep.

* * *

 

He headed for the dining hall as soon as he was dressed, hoping to catch Teyla over breakfast for a quiet conversation. 

She was nowhere in sight when he arrived, so Stephen grabbed some ohkar and banana pancakes layered with blueberry curd, along with a black coffee, and took a seat, thinking perhaps she might still come by.  He waited about twenty minutes before deciding to check the main courtyard, thinking he might find her there, or at least passing through on the way to her morning training exercises.

He saw her amidst a group of their youngest novices, who stood watching in delighted awe as she worked a magic unfamiliar to him.  Teyla waved her hands in the air above the circle of children, weaving them gracefully in a pattern made easy to discern by the glowing trails of vivid blue that followed in their wake.  With each completed pass, Stephen observed a cascade of colors appear midair; as he moved closer, he could tell that they were flower petals--and could hear the children’s exclamations of pleasure as they giggled and twirled beneath the fairy shower, while holding their hands out to catch what they could.  Those petals left uncaught landed with a little pop upon the children’s hair and happy, upturned faces, to evaporate in a spark of vibrant color.  Grinning at the happy, unexpected sight, Stephen came to the edge of the circle, noting that as Teyla wove her spell, she was humming a cheery series of notes, which fit perfectly with the scene before him.

“Good morning, children,” he chuckled, so that one by one the little faces turned his way. 

“Good morning, Master Strange,” they intoned back, some in English, some in Nepali, and all not quite in unison, so that he could hear the individual piping of even the youngest child.

“Good morning, Miss Teyla,” he grinned, “What magic is this--and might you teach _me_ to charm rose petals from thin air?”

Surprised by his greeting, Teyla bobbed her head, too shy it seemed—or perhaps unwilling, he surmised--to meet his eyes.  “It is just a small magic, Doctor Strange,” she told him meekly, “Meant only to entertain these young ones."

“Well, it’s a lovely bit of magic all the same,” he assured her, hoping to soften her reticence towards him and set her at ease.  “Don’t you think so children?”

Again they answered, nearly as one, in an excited chorus of ‘ _yeses_ ’, with several of them appearing ready to begin such a lesson at once.

Stephen could tell that she was quietly pleased with their reaction, a little smile ticking up the corners of her mouth, though her tone and manner remained deferential, “Thank you, Doctor.  You are most kind to say so.”

He crouched down to address the young novices directly, “I need to speak with Miss Teyla privately now, so I’m going to steal her away a bit.  You wouldn’t mind that, would you?”  Some regarded him quite solemnly, nodding their understanding before dispersing, with a few lingering to thank her before she bid them on their way.

Stephen rose and approached her gently, sensing that she was still a bit skittish in his presence.  “I meant that sincerely, Teyla.  That was a sweet little spell you worked for them.  Perhaps sometime you could show me how it’s done?”

“Oh…well…it is only the simplest of magics, Doctor,” she reiterated, “One of the first taught to Hadeethan children who are found to be apt.  But I…I would never presume to have anything to teach a Master.”

“None of us are ever too skilled, or even too old, to learn something new.  Knowledge is a gift, Teyla,” he told her sagely, “And so long as it brings no harm to others, a gift we should never turn away.”

“You are right, of course”, she admitted, brave enough from his encouragement to finally meet his eyes, “And I would be glad for the opportunity to share what I might, of our magic, with you.”  Her dark, doe-eyes watched him expectantly as he drew nearer, but flitted downward as he stood before her.  Clearly, his reaction of the evening before had left its sting—giving Stephen even stronger motivation to cure what he had soured.

“Please look at me, Teyla.”  Patiently he waited while she raised her face to his.  “I owe you an apology about last night…”

“Oh no, Doctor Strange—the error was entirely mine,” she insisted, shaking her head emphatically, “I should not have spoken so candidly, of such a private matter.”  Sincerely contrite, she blushed in embarrassment, “It is I who must tender my regrets.”

Stephen laid a hand upon her shoulder, “You did nothing wrong, Teyla.”  Unconvinced, she shook her head slightly, compelling him to greater urgency.  “Believe me, please—and please forgive me for my foolishness.  I treated you rudely. You didn’t deserve that at all—and I am truly sorry.”

Genuinely surprised, she answered graciously, “That is not necessary, Doctor.  You could not have been prepared for such a confession—your reaction was more than reasonable.  And I was the foolish one, to take it so to heart.”

He took her by both shoulders, moved by her honest desire to assume responsibility--and by how easily she had already absolved him.  “I haven’t known you long—and I haven’t your gift for reading people’s emotions—but I can see your heart is kind, and honestly in the right place.”  She made no reply, quietly modest in the face of his declaration, “There’s a special magic in that, and one that cannot be taught.  Trust your instincts, Teyla of Hadeeth.  They will rarely steer you wrong.”

She gazed at him quite frankly, searching for the truth in his eyes, leaving him to feel that his own heart was being scrutinized.  Satisfied his compliment was honestly paid, she told him, “I am honored that you say so, Sir—and will count you advice as valuable as any lesson I will gain in Kamar-Taj.”

The matter seeming to be settled, neither spoke—but Stephen felt he should not let her leave without touching on a lighter topic.  “Soooo,” he started, keen to prove that he was well past any resentment—and that she could feel comfortable in discussing the subject going forward, “Did you dream at all last night?”

She arched a brow, smirking softly at his effort to cement the peace between them, “I did, but they were just ordinary dreams.  Nothing of import.”

“Nothing for your journal then?”  Teyla shook her head, so that he followed up, “Can you be sure of that?”

“Oh yes, Doctor.  Absolutely sure—for I dreamt of my father, as I usually do when he is much on my mind.”  She grew wistful in the remembering, “It has been several years since I saw him last—and returning to Earth now, my heart feels impatient to see him again.”

_Further testament of a tender heart_ , Stephen thought, recalling Master Salma’s observation that Teyla would need to be taught how to safeguard her mind and heart from any negative side effects that her powerful empathy could trigger.  He wondered, too, if her earnest, gentle nature was actually suited for the plans her mother had for her—a testing of sorts, which Moraine had intimated could entail some unknown danger.  Already he felt rather protective of his Hadeethan charge, realizing a time might come when he would have to play the advocate for Teyla’s best interests.

Without a second thought, he found himself extending a surprising proposal, “How about we see how your training progresses over the next few weeks?  If all goes well, maybe we can arrange for you to visit him.”

Teyla nearly jumped up and down with delight, her soft, brown eyes shining brightly.  “Truly, Doctor Strange?  I had not dared to hope for such a chance.  I will do everything the Masters ask of me, without fail,” she vowed, “I swear I shall prove worthy of your offer!”

Amused by her unabashed enthusiasm, Stephen grinned and nodded, “I believe you’ll do exactly that, Teyla.”

The smile she flashed him held a joy that seemed contagious—until she looked away, suddenly self-conscious.  “If I am to fulfill your terms, than I must be on my way to morning training, good Doctor. Thank you for the hope you have promised me.  It will lighten whatever tasks lay ahead.”  She bowed her head respectfully, then moved along her way.

Strange watched Teyla as she went, pondering the streak of playfulness he had witnessed as she worked that pretty magic, appreciative of how it complimented her confidence of purpose and her seriousness about the work she hoped to do.  She was turning out to be a much more intriguing challenge than he had assumed he would face, when Moraine had charged him with furthering her education.

As if she had read his thoughts, Teyla turned back at the edge of the courtyard, looking perplexed.  Stephen shrugged, feeling as though he’d been caught red-handed at the cookie jar, and witnessed her bewilderment melt into a sunny smile.  Had she actually _heard_ those thoughts, or did she just pick up on his feelings?  Either way, she had an uncanny knack for reading him, as though he was a favorite book that she had already nearly memorized.  She raised a hand to wave farewell, and sallied off to class, leaving him pleasantly unsettled—and resolving to keep his growing fascination with his newest, favorite student buried, deeper down than she might inadvertently detect it.

  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Sorry if the chapter seems a bit weak--it's one of those "little bridges" to get to the next bigger, plot points. These sort of bridges often turn out to be sort of tedious for me to write, but hopefully will allow me to go on to better things. Thank you for your patience, Dear Reader!)


	5. Chapter 5

Attending to his responsibilities as Master of the New York Sanctum often kept Stephen away from Kamar-Taj for days, or even weeks, at a time.  As a key bulwark in the defense of Earth against other worldly and other dimensional threats, the Sanctum was his top priority, even as he continued to refine his skills and hone his mastery of the mystic arts.  Fortunately, his former career had left him well prepared for the pressure and demands upon his time and talents, forging him into an accomplished multi-tasker.  With constant vigilance as his watchword—and the assistance of a dozen advanced Adepts rotating through his Sanctum on a regular basis--Stephen succeeded handily.

He returned to Kamar-Taj after a two-week stint, which included a protracted battle against several demons who sought to assert mind control over a gullible group of religious cultists, hoping to use them as conduit from one of the dark dimensions to create a foothold upon Earth.  Glad for the quiet and orderly calm which the compound offered, Stephen headed for the library before checking in with masters of the various disciplines—for Wong remained his best source for keeping track of not only crucial developments within the facility, but for updating him on the small details of everyday life among the students.

Crossing the courtyard, he spotted Teyla—now clad in the currant-colored garments of an Adept—sitting on one of the waist high stone partitions, speaking with a male Adept who appeared about her age.  He was leaning against the low wall; they looked quite comfortably close, as she laughed at something he had said.  Another young man soon joined them, boosting himself up to sit beside her. Stephen was glad to see this indication that Teyla had found a good fit among her peers; her focus had been so steadfast upon training, and upon the work she longed to do, that he’d been concerned she might isolate herself from social interactions.  He grinned as her honest laughter carried across to him easily on the clear, morning air--making him wish he could be party to the trio’s conversation, and discover what had animated her so.

Mixed in with his curiosity, Stephen felt a quiet swell of protectiveness move him, for Teyla’s sake.  He supposed it wasn’t too unusual—he did bear a share of responsibility for her well-being, after all.  Yet the music of her laughter was lovely enough to leave him with a twinge of longing for a chance of his own to make her laugh, and to see the amusement that must color her soft doe-eyes…

With a deep breath, he shook off his uncharacteristic woolgathering and turned his mind back to practical matters, making a mental note to ask Wong about the Adepts paying such close attention to Teyla—reasoning that Moraine wouldn’t want them distracting her daughter too much from her training regimen.

Teyla’s voice followed him as he reached the steps leading to the library, “Doctor.  A moment of your time, please?”  Stephen turned back, to find her sprinting towards him.

“Good morning, Teyla,” he grinned, noticing the bloom of healthy color in her cheeks; life at Kamar-Taj obviously suited her well.  “What can I do for you?”

She reached his side, bright eyed and not winded in the least, “I wished to welcome you back.  I am glad to see you are well, and safely returned to us.”

“Thank you—I’m happy to be back myself.”  And he was; coupled with Teyla’s sincere, enthusiastic greeting, there was something rejuvenating in returning to the place where his eyes had at last been opened to the hidden wonders of the universe.  “I see you’ve advanced quickly while I’ve been gone.”

She gave a little twirl, showing off her new tunic, and beaming with delight, “It was only yesterday I was awarded the ranking of Adept.”

Though the last time they had spoken, she had sworn again to work her hardest, Stephen hadn’t expected her to achieve that rank so quickly.  “You have good reason to be proud, Teyla—you’ve accomplished much in your time here.”  His honest compliment was rewarded with her prettiest smile yet.  “And I’m sure your mother will be pleased with your progress,” he added.

“That is one of my hopes, Doctor,” she proclaimed, “But in truth, I have other priorities beyond pleasing Mother.”  For the first time, Teyla seemed unintimated by Moraine’s heavy-handed expectations—and if it was her studies at Kamar-Taj that had awakened this new streak of independence, he would be delighted to encourage her.

“Teyla, am I correct in guessing there may be something _I_  can do to help you accomplish these goals?”

“Is mind-reading one of your many skills, Doctor Strange?”  She laughed softly, and somehow the charm of it—coupled with the guileless admiration in her warm, brown eyes—left him feeling about ten years younger, and very light of heart.

“I’m afraid I’m not that talented,” he chuckled, “Let’s just call it an educated guess instead.”  She acquiesced with a small nod, so that he asked, “How can I help you, Teyla of Hadeeth?”

“Well, there are two matters on my mind, Doctor,” she began, “I hope to begin studies in the mystic healing arts of Kamar-Taj.  I am already skilled in those of my own people, and I wish to learn as much as I can here, not only to expand my abilities, but to share them with other Healers when I return home.”

“A reasonable request, and one I recall from your arrival here.”  He weighed her entreaty only a moment before telling her, “I think we can make arrangements to begin, so long as you maintain good progress in your other studies…”

“Yes…yes, of course,” she readily agreed.

“And you will continue in your efforts to develop a better understanding and some control over your prescient dreaming…” he reminded her.

“Absolutely!” she exclaimed.

‘Excellent,” he commended her.  Then, in light of his role as her tutor on the subject, Stephen continued, “And how goes the dream journal these days?”

Teyla raised a brow and parted her lips to respond, then seemed to reconsider her answer before replying cautiously, “I have made a record of my dreams, though…hmmm…for the most part, I do not believe they are of import to my training…”

“Are you that certain, Teyla?”  His curiosity piqued, Stephen felt obligated to advise her, “Perhaps you should consult with Master Salma or myself; sometimes a student lacks the perspective to judge such things for themselves.”

She looked away, abruptly self-conscious and fairly stammering back, “No, Sir…no.  I am certain my…these…these dreams are merely the ordinary dreams of…of a mind tired by days of rigorous training and study.”  Facing him again, her eyes plead silently for him to let the subject rest at that.

Perplexed, Stephen chose not to belabor the topic—for now.  “Okaaaay.  We can hold off on that a bit—as long as you’re sure there’s nothing important.”  He observed her closely for any clue as to what might eclipse her usual candor.  She showed relief—and gratitude—but no hint of any secret.  “And your second request?”

Eagerly, she addressed a subject much dearer to her heart, “My father, Doctor. I thought perhaps you might allow me time to visit him.  I have fulfilled my promise, after all—and I long to reunite with him soon.”

Her visible affection for her father would be persuasion enough, even without reminding him of his promise.  “The sooner, the better, I’m guessing.”

“Yes, Sir. Yes…please?”

“I’ll need to check with your other Masters first, but I can’t imagine they’ll give me anything but glowing reports about your progress.”  He laid a hand upon her shoulder, happy to fulfill her fondest wish, “Consider it as good as done, Teyla.  Will tomorrow morning be soon enough?”

She replied exactly as expected, “Oh yes, Doctor Strange.  Thank you so very much!”  And then, to his surprise, she moved in close and brushed a fleeting kiss upon his check.  Not giving him a moment to react, she backed away, “Do forgive my forwardness—I’m just…I’m very glad for this gift.”

_So pleasant a kiss—and light as a fairy’s_.  As though he’d actually been kissed by a fairy at any point in his life.  Recovering swiftly, Stephen quirked her a crooked smile, “Think nothing of it, Teyla—I’d kiss me too over such good news.”

She regarded him skeptically, then allowed his ready humor to set her at ease.  “Indeed, Doctor Strange. That’s quite a thing to picture.”  She bobbed her head in farewell, “I should be off to class, but will look for your affirmation later.”

“Yes.”  As she turned to go, he remembered to ask, “By the way, just where on Earth does your father live?”

“New York City,” she nearly sang in her delight, “In the village of Greenwich.”

* * *

 “Greenwich Village,” he had muttered as he watched Teyla cross the courtyard en route to her class.   _Why does that_  not  _surprise me_?  It was enough to make him speculate that the Universe had a perverse sense of humor.  Weeks ago, when Teyla had revealed her history of dreaming of his hands, he’d acknowledged it was more than just coincidence that their paths had eventually crossed here in Kathmandu.  After the initial shock—and the uneasy hours spent wondering if perhaps she’d been given those visions in order to save him the tragic damage that destroyed his old world—Stephen had accepted it as yet another marvel of his new world, and as a sign he was  _exactly_  where he was  _supposed_  to be.  This latest detail almost seemed like overkill—but also led him to suspect that this kind, ingenuous young woman might have a significant role to play in the mystic mission of Kamar-Taj…and mayhap, in his own service to the multi-verse.

As promised, Stephen sent a Novice to deliver a message to Teyla that evening, telling her to be ready to depart from the main courtyard at 9am the next morning--and that he would accompany her.  He planned to conjure the portal himself, bringing her to the New York Sanctum personally, before setting out for her father’s place.  Though he felt a bit anxious, he remained intrigued to see what further “coincidences” might arise between them, and if there might be an overarching purpose revealed as to their unanticipated…entanglement.  Perhaps meeting her father might shed some light on the rapidly multiplying twists of fate that seemed to be bringing them together.  If not, well…at least he could set his mind at ease, knowing Teyla was safely delivered to the one soul in a city of eight million plus, who would wish only for her best.     


	6. Chapter 6

Teyla was already awaiting him in the courtyard, the woven bag she had brought with her from Hadeeth, packed and sitting at her feet.  Stephen knew without asking how excited she must be, for he had arrived several minutes early himself yet she had still preceded him.  She wore a gauzy, pale blue dress, belted with a fabric sash of darker blue, which accentuated her slim waist and narrow hips; the matching hemline fell just above her bare calves, and simple denim flats encased her small feet.  She had braided several red and navy ribbons into her hair, the total effect more feminine than he’d ever seen her—and very festive.  He couldn’t quite tell if this was Hadeethan style dress—or if she had adopted a look seen often enough on the streets of Greenwich Village.  It put him in mind of a bohemian peasant design, reminiscent of the late 70’s--and suited her nature perfectly. 

“Good morning, Doctor,” she called to him brightly, smiling so brilliantly as he drew near, that it seemed she eclipsed the morning sunshine in the cloudless sky.  He noted a flash of silver and bright purple on her hand as she waved him closer.

“Good morning, Teyla,” he replied somberly, unable to resist teasing her for just a few moments, “Going somewhere?”

She tossed her head prettily, smirking at him, “You know well, Sir, as _you_ agreed to escort me upon this adventure.  I barely slept last night from the anticipation.”

“Oh, right—I misplaced my to-do list this morning,” he joked.  Standing beside her, he felt her happiness as though it were his own, spurring him to speculate if her empathetic nature could create a two-way connection.  “And what’s this?” he asked, pointing to the ring on the middle finger of her left hand.

“Another gift from my father—wisely bestowed upon my 16th birthday.”  Teyla raised her hand to give him a closer look.

“I’ll be damned,” Stephen murmured, “A mood ring.”  He took her hand, chuckling at the surprise, “I haven’t seen one of these in ages.”  The vivid violet of the stone was sign enough of the joy reflected in her eyes.  

“They have rudimentary magic, you know,” she explained, though it was quite unnecessary.  “Father presented it to me as a reminder that it is all well and good to be able to read the feelings of others, but I should never do so to the exclusion of my own.”

“A wise man,” Stephen nodded, looking forward to meeting him more than he had expected.  “Shall we then?” he asked, stretching his hands forward to create the portal.  As the orange-gold ring flared to life, Stephen scooped up her bag, and offered her his arm.

Wide-eyed and smiling happily, Teyla slipped her arm through the crook of his, and together they passed into the New York Sanctum.

* * *

 

Though she was eager to begin—not even taking a moment to goggle at her new surroundings--Stephen kept Teyla waiting ten full minutes as he changed into street clothes for their trip to Lafayette Street.  His thoughts strayed again to contemplate how she had been _here_ —in the Big Apple--all those years ago, attending high school while he perfected his medical skills and worked his way up to the pinnacle of his profession across town.  Facts which continued to amaze him as he looked forward to what further surprises might be unveiled when they reached their destination.  He promised himself he would give her a thorough tour of his new domain before they returned to Kamar-Taj.

Late afternoon, summer in the city, the bustle of residents and tourists alike thronging on the sidewalks, the disorganized background symphony of traffic, the occasional distant siren rising above it all.  His city, whether uptown in his old life—or here and now, as he served as the city’s anonymous guardian.  His city, and despite the drastic change in the course of his life, ever his true home.

Upon hitting the sidewalks of Bleecker Street, Teyla showed no surprise at the multitude of people around them—very like a seasoned New Yorker—but wisely stuck close to his side on their trek to her father’s building.  She took the opportunity to tell Stephen more about him as they walked.  “Father is a professor at Columbia University.  He teaches Art History and several intermediate courses in various disciplines.”  They stopped at the crosswalk, waiting for the light to change.  “He is an artist himself,” she revealed proudly, “He draws and paints, but his true passion is sculpting.  He loves the challenge of bringing life and emotion to blocks of inert material—transforming them into his unique vision by the skill of his hands.”

“That’s a passion I can understand,” Stephen said quietly, recalling the medical miracles that had once flowed from his fingertips, before quickly shunting aside the attendant regrets for his loss.  The light flashed to allow pedestrians to cross.

The crowd around them moved forward, and though she was jostled by a stranger or two, Teyla remained in place without a word, looking up at him with infinite patience and unspoken understanding, and finally placed a consoling hand on his arm.  Caught off guard ( _how does she_ do _that?_ he exclaimed inwardly), he drew a deep breath, not trusting himself to speak, instead simply willing her to just let the moment pass.  Teyla nodded softly, the bittersweet of her small smile an echo of the heartache he always wished to keep well hidden.  Without a word, Stephen patted her hand, maintaining the contact that was her honest proffer of comfort, before flashing her an impudent smile.  “Shall we?” he asked, and she squeezed his arm gently in answer, allowing him to lead her on their way.

* * *

 

“And so Father had hoped I would remain here long enough to receive a college degree, but I realized part way through sophomore year that I could not deny my yearning for home,” she concluded as they came to stand in front of a four story brownstone, “But it was not only homesickness that swayed me so—for I knew I had much left to learn of the healing arts from my Hadeethan teachers.”

“And you haven’t seen him since?”

Teyla shrugged and bowed her head, “Regretfully, I am remiss in my familial duty to him.”

“No, Teyla; I’m sure he doesn’t see it that way at all.”  Stephen leaned closer, offering what wisdom he could, “He’s your dad after all, and he certainly wants to see you happy and fulfilled above all other things.”

“Yes…you are right, or course, Doctor.  Thank you for reminding me.”  She drew a long, deep breath, and squared her shoulders, “I am ready now.”  Teyla drew a thin chain from around her neck; Stephen hadn’t noticed it, tucked inside her dress.  It bore the key to her father’s loft.

The glass door to the building was unlocked.  They entered a small atrium lined on either side with tenants’ mail slots, and a buzzer beneath each to allow visitors to announce their arrival. Teyla went directly to the box marked ‘Charles’.

Several minutes passed with no response, so that she rang a few times more.  When there was still no answer, she hit the buzzer marked ‘Superintendent’.  She looked up at the lobby camera, knowing the super would be checking whomever sought entry.  A tinny, disembodied voice asked, “What can I do for ya?”

“Yes…um…hello, Sir,” Teyla addressed the monitor, “I am here to visit my father, Walter Charles.”  She raised her key into view, “I have a key to his loft, but he does not appear to be home.”

“Teyla?”

“Um…yes,” she answered, and turned back to motion Stephen forward, “I am accompanied by my mentor, Doctor Stephen Strange.”  When there was no reply, she continued, “My visit here was unplanned, so that my father is not expecting me…”

“Well, no, he wouldn’t, would he?”  The super sounded puzzled.

“I…I do not understand.”  Teyla looked to Stephen, confusion shadowing her features. 

He came to her side to address the camera himself, adopting his most authoritative tone, “This young woman has journeyed a mind-boggling distance to visit her father.  Do you think you can help her out?”

“Oh, hey man, it’s cool,” said the voice, “It’s just that…well, come on down the hall to my office, ‘cuz we need to talk before ya head on up there, okay?”  The latch on the inside door released.  Stephen pressed his hand lightly against the small of Teyla’s back, offering reassurance while urging her to pass inside.

* * *

 

The superintendent’s office was clean and brightly lit, which Stephen knew from long experience was a good testament to the quality of the building and its residents.  The man stood to welcome them, and invited his guests to take seats opposite him at his desk.

“It seems you know my name, but forgive me please—I do not remember yours.”  Teyla’s apprehension was tangible; the strong urge to protect her washed over Stephen once again.

“Uh, yeah…” he extended a meaty hand across the desk to her, “Karl Worley.  I’ve been super here…hmmm…four years come September.  So we’ve never met, Miss Charles, but I’ve been expecting you…”

“How’s that?” Stephen interjected.

Worley spared him a brief glance, and then offered Teyla his explanation, “Your father closed up his loft a couple years back, but paid the rent five years in advance. Even arranged for a cleaning service to come by every two weeks to keep things tidy for you.  Told me your work kept you away for years at a time, but that you might show up one day, unannounced.  And that when you did, I should let you in, no questions asked.”

“But why?  Where did he go?”  Despite her steady manner, Stephen could tell that Teyla was crestfallen.

Worley shook his head, “I’m sorry, Miss Charles—but I don’t have a clue.”

Teyla swallowed hard, absorbing the little information she’d been given.  Stephen spoke up on her behalf.  “Alright then, Mr. Worley—maybe you can allow us to check out the loft.  Perhaps Mr. Charles left his daughter a more complete answer than you were given.”

“I’m guessing as much.”  He addressed Teyla directly, softening unexpectedly, “Wherever he is now, I want you to know that you were...are… his first priority, honey.  Anybody hearing him talk about you knew right away that he loves you more than anyone or anything in the world.”  He raised his right hand as an oath, “God’s honest truth.”

She nodded and thanked Worley for his help and for his kindness, as he handed her a new key card to allow her access to the building and the loft.  Stephen was hoping to linger a few moments, perhaps to glean anything the super had left unspoken, but Teyla was too anxious to delay even a minute more.   

Once the elevator doors closed, Stephen was quick to wax optimistic for her sake. “I’m sure everything’s okay, Teyla,” he offered, aiming to sound casual, despite the concerns which that conversation had raised, “That guy struck me as pretty melodramatic.”

“Yes.  Perhaps you are right.”  Though she was trying to be brave, she sounded unconvinced.  He wished he could drape an arm around her shoulders and reinforce his own show of bravado, but he guessed she might not welcome that as she likely knew it was a bluff.

Exiting the lift, Teyla marched forward, undaunted by the imagined possibilities.  She slid her keycard into the door slot and entered the accompanying security code, then swung wide the door.

The place was even more spotless than Stephen had expected; the walls were bare, with stacks of—what he assumed were—framed photographs and artwork leaning along the baseboards, and light gray drop cloths covering the furnishings.  The windows glimmered with the late afternoon, summer sunlight, but the loft must have been climate controlled, for the air temperature was quite comfortable.  Teyla moved about the space tentatively at first, eventually calling out for her father several times, hoping against hope he would surprise her with an answer.

Stephen noticed a large white envelope tacked to the gleaming, stainless steel refrigerator.  Her name was embossed in black sharpie across the front.  “Teyla, honey,” he beckoned, unconsciously using the same endearment for her as Worley had, “There’s something here you need to see.”

She rushed to his side, hope breaking upon her face; the doctor in him noted her respiration was shallow, her pupils grown large despite the bright sunlight flooding the room.  _Classic symptoms of ‘fight vs._ _flight’_ , he concluded; _she’s_ barely _holding it together_. “It’s going to be alright, honey,” he assured her, wishing with all his heart that saying it would make it so.

Her eyes wide as saucers, were locked on his as she nodded solemnly—and somehow, even in her extremity, she managed a wee smile, that felt like it was for his sake alone.  She took the envelope in hands that trembled slightly, removed the letter inside, and began to read it to herself.

Several paragraphs in, Teyla gave the barest shake of her head. “No,” she whispered, her voice rising each time she repeated the word.  “No…no…no,” she said, shaking her head vehemently.  “No,” she whimpered at the last, letting the pages drift from her hands as she fell to her knees, covering her face and weeping painfully.  Stephen could feel her heart breaking.

He crouched down and pulled her into his arms, feeling the sobs that wracked her penetrate his bones.  Breathing in her pain, praying he could give her some measure of solace, he found her to be so small and frail in his embrace, that he had to take care not to hold on too tight.  “Oh god, Teyla,” he murmured against her hair, “I’m so, so sorry…”  Wondering what sort of comfort might make a difference for her.

She cried this way for several minutes, while he stroked her hair and crooned what consolation he could, letting her tears wet his collar and neck.  He found himself rocking her gently, and eventually she began to relax.  Teyla drew several deep breaths, doing her best to come back to herself, beginning to disentangle from him--though Stephen was unwilling to let go of her completely just yet.

She laid a cheek against his own—how flushed her skin felt!—prompting him to speak his thoughts, “Anything you need, Teyla…just tell me, and it’s as good as done.”

Her voice raw with pain, she thanked him, “You have done already what I needed most.  But please, Sir, do no leave me here alone.”

Stephen squeezed his eyes shut against the sorrow in her plaintive request; gently he urged her, “If ever you should read me, read me now, my dear; I wouldn’t leave your side now for all the world.”

Teyla sniffled--and he swore he felt a flash of her sweet smile—before nodding against him.  “You are a good man, Stephen Strange.  The best comfort I can imagine having, so far from my home.”  He shivered as she brushed her lips against his cheek—a second kiss, but as far from that first, fairy kiss as the Moon is from Mother Earth.  She pulled away enough to face him directly.  He had never thought to see such despair in the depths of her soft brown eyes—but the steel that was a gift from Moraine was there as well. 

“C’mon,” he told her, rising to his feet and pulling her along, “Does this place have a sofa or somewhere soft to sit?”

Teyla nodded, pointing to one of the cloth draped shapes several feet away.  Still holding her hand, Stephen led her to it, pulled back the cover, and motioned for her to take a seat.  Once situated, he crouched by her side again, “You stay here.  I’m going to find you something cool to drink.  You’ve had a terrible shock, and I’m still enough of a doctor to tend to you properly.”

Checking the fridge, Stephen found several sealed bottles of water; finding them unexpired, he removed two, cracking one open as he returned to Teyla’s side.  “Drink it slowly, Teyla.  Doctor’s orders,” he quipped.

Obediently, she swallowed a little at a time, and before he took a seat beside her, asked quietly, “The letter, though.  I haven’t finished it.”

“Rest a little first, honey.  It’ll be better for you this way.”

She sighed hard, but offered no protest, folding her legs beneath her and laying her head against the top of the couch.  Her eyes were unfocused, and though he sat no more than a dozen inches away, Stephen felt certain she didn’t register his presence--until she spoke…

Softly at first, and then with growing urgency.  “Why did I not dream of him, Doctor Strange?  Of what use is this ability, if I was blind to see my own father’s need?”  Tears spilled from her doleful eyes, “And why did I dream of your hands, yet had no clue to who you were, let alone any chance of preventing your pain?”

Too familiar himself, with guilt’s useless but well-worn paths, Stephen counselled her, “Teyla, you mustn’t do this to yourself.  There are some questions we can never answer…and some tasks that are beyond us, no matter the sacrifice are willing to make…”

“But why?” she interjected, “Why show me visions where miracles are needed, and not give me the chance to work even the smallest of miracles to right things?  Why give me the desire and the skill to be a Healer, if not to allow me to help those in dire need?”  She laid her hand over her heart, and her pain there was palpable, her grief a wave that washed over him, “Of what use am _I_ if I could not even save my own father?”

Stephen bowed his head, the memories of his own lost opportunities grown painfully fresh, the wisdom he had to offer earned through his own failures, “Oh, Teyla—believe me, I’ve asked myself the same sort of questions.  And I’ve learned that’s it’s the nature of miracles that we can’t choose where and when to perform them.  All we can really do is be ready to act without hesitation when the opportunity presents itself.”

Wearily, Teyla rested her forehead against her hand, “You truly believe this, Stephen Strange?”

“Absolutely,” he answered, watching her closely, wanting to ease her anguish.

“Your council is wise, and gives a measure of consolation.”  She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, then nodded to herself.  “Now I would know all that my father had to say.”

“Of course.  Right away.” Stephen rose and retrieved the letter from where it had fallen, then returned to Teyla’s side.

“Perhaps…” she started, tentative in her request, “Perhaps you could read it to me?  I cannot brave this news alone.”

Though reticent to broach her privacy, he nodded, and took a deep breath before he began…

_“My Dearest Teyla,_

_My darling girl.  I’m so sorry to have to tell you these things in a letter.  You deserve better, but some things are beyond our control.  If you are reading this, chances are very likely that this is my final farewell.  I had hoped for a chance to see you once more; in person at least, for you are so often in my happiest of dreams.  Indeed, you are the sweetest dream I’ve ever had, and the one that I take with me wherever I go.  Know that when I close my eyes for the last time, your image will be the one that sees me into my final rest._

_I won’t tell you not to mourn.  Your heart is beautiful and deep, and your nature too loving to do anything else but mourn.  But do not let it dim your light, for the world—_ both _our worlds—is always in need of more light.”_

(Stephen stole a look her way; Teyla held her head proudly, her eyes closed, appearing the image of calm strength despite her sorrow.)

_“The time you spent with me here was the best time of my life.  And coupled with the time I had with your Mother, my most prolific.  My beautiful Muses—no Artist could ask for better, nor think to be blessed with two so distinct and--in their own ways—perfect ones!_

_About three years after you returned to Hadeeth, I began to experience blinding headaches.  My doctor at the time diagnosed them as migraines, prescribed a series of medications that didn’t help, and advised me to work less and relax more.  Ha!—well, I was better served ‘self-medicating’, but even that did not delay the inevitable.  In time, I began to experience weakness on the left side of my body, and difficulty maintaining my balance._   _Too late I sought a second, third, and fourth opinion, so that this thing--an anaplastic astrocytoma, they told me--growing inside my brain had a well-entrenched foothold, from which neither chemotherapy nor radiation could shake loose.  My last hope was a hot shot, genius of a doctor, practicing his art (I say art, for it seems to me that medicine truly is as much an art as it is a science—and not all those licensed have the gift to make real miracles happen) out of Metropolitan General, uptown.”_

(Stephen hissed softly, rereading the last sentence to himself, recognizing with bitter clarity that the ‘hot shot genius’ _had_ to have been himself.  Recognizing that he—perhaps—had played a role in Teyla’s heartbreaking loss.  He cleared his throat before he began reading aloud again.) 

_“Getting an appointment with this man was nearly unheard of, but I managed. Unfortunately, within the first five minutes of our consultation, he made it clear I was inoperable, and with very little ceremony, sent me on my way to do my dying discreetly, and far from view.”_

(Closing his eyes, Stephen tried to remember the anonymous face of Walter Charles, one of too many he had written off in his hubris.  His time, then, had been far too valuable to waste on hopeless cases; his business was not to provide comfort to the dying, but to save those patients who provided the calculated challenge enough for him to cure while creating breakthroughs in the field of neurosurgery.)

_“Thus leaves my story off.  I’ve been through the five stages from grief to acceptance, and I feel ready for the journeys to come.  Finishing here, then moving along to the next.  You know I believe in the next.  There’s just too much wonder and beautiful in this wide, boundless Universe to believe we are but a candle’s brief flame.  You and your Mother are proof enough of that._

_Please tell your Mother she was in my thoughts as well, during my last months.  And tell her that after her, there was no other woman for me; our time may have been relatively brief, but it gave me a full lifetime of happiness._

_Teyla, my gentle, loving Teyla, know that as I go you were—you are—the greatest creation that came from me (though I should take little credit for how you turned out, as so much of who you are is as natural to you as breathing).  You are my opus, my masterpiece, the answer to every ‘why am I here?’ that I have ever asked.  My purpose and my sweetest reward.  I pray you find fulfillment and peace of mind & spirit, in measure even further beyond that which you have given me._

_Love today & always,_

_Dad”_

Teyla remained silent, brushing tears from her cheeks with both her hands, and then looked to him.  His stomach roiling with shame, Stephen could not hold her gaze for long, and turned his attention back to the remaining pages of the letter.  He skimmed through them quickly, then shared the contents with her.  “These last two pages list your father’s assets, and how they’ve been distributed.  It seems he sold a lot of his work to ensure you’d have this place to come home to, and to see to your living expenses and whatever other needs might arise down the road,” he explained, feeling her watch him, keeping his eyes squarely on the papers in his hands, “The money’s in trust, and he left instructions should you want to access it.  The bulk of the work he didn’t sell he left in the hands of Columbia University’s School of the Arts--again for you to access as you wish.”  Finally, he met her eyes again, finding no hint of accusation though he thought she _must_ feel his guilt.  “Those works that had the greatest meaning to him—and, he hoped, to you—are stored _here_ …”  Stephen trailed off, seeing the gratitude in Teyla’s eyes, knowing he deserved that the least of all things.  He folded the letter and handed it to her.

“Thank you, Doctor,” she told him quietly, “You have made this burden far easier to bear.”  She held the letter against her heart.  “I nearly heard my father’s voice as you brought his words to life.  This is a gift I will not soon forget.”

His face felt hot with remorse, wondering when she would read the truth of his culpability; honesty might be the best policy, relieving him of guilt, but he could not inflict that additional sorrow upon her.  “It’s the least I could do, Teyla.  I wish…I wish I could do more.”  _So much more_ , he thought, wondering if when she _did_ learn the truth of his failure to help her father, she would be able to even look at him…let alone forgive him.

 


	7. Chapter 7

Stephen had suggested that they return to the Sanctum, hoping to allow Teyla a chance to process all that had happened, and to begin to grieve.  She had declined, her eyes brimming with determination and an eagerness to share with him, her happiest memories of her father.  He watched her move about the flat, while telling him a series of stories in a sort of stream of consciousness--leading him to realize that this was how she chose to mourn.  Eventually, she came to sit beside him on the sofa, her focus on showing him the contents of several photo albums encompassing the time she’d spent living with her dad.

In the quiet moments in between, Stephen sensed how desperately she was trying to fend off her heartbreak.  He hurt for her, but remained patient for the moment she might trust him enough to ask for what she needed.

As dusk colored the sky outside, Teyla located those pieces of her father’s work which he had saved for her, covered loosely in several layers of muslin cloth, waiting for her hand to reveal.  Worn and weary as she was, she found the fortitude to hang on just a while longer—though with each piece she unveiled, Stephen noted her tears remained barely in check.

First there was a thick sketchbook that Charles had kept during the years that Teyla lived with him.  Much of its content was concerned with Teyla herself; studies of her at the breakfast table or amidst a pile of schoolbooks; sketches of her laughing, or at play; even a few which caught her sleeping--all of them created with a father’s loving eye.  Stephen enjoyed seeing this younger version of Teyla, imagining the daily joy she had brought to her father’s life.

There was a softly romantic portrait of Moraine in the nude, which Teyla explained had been painted early in their courtship; that the Artist was head over heels for his model was evident in every brushstroke.  A second painting depicted Moraine in the fertile bloom of pregnancy; set against the night sky, framed against an open window of a smaller apartment of decades ago, she was clothed in a translucent ivory nightgown, her hands resting protectively upon her protruding belly.  Stephen found it nothing short of breathtaking; a magnificently rendered image of womanhood in its unassailable glory, and beautiful with understated sensuality.

“You like this one,” Teyla observed quietly, but clearly proud of her father’s handiwork.

Stephen let out a low whistle, “This piece is amazing, Teyla. Your dad was a talented artist.”

Her voice caught a moment, but she readily agreed.

Two sculptures sat draped in linen slip cloths, lined with tyvek for extra protection from moisture; Teyla uncovered them reverently to reveal a bust of her mother—looking like some Grecian goddess—while the other captured Moraine with a wee Teyla.  Though made of marble, the piece was alive with their family bond, as mother bent low, cupping her daughter’s hands in her own, allowing both to study a small winged creature (Stephen’s mind insisted it was some sort of Hadeethan butterfly) which rested upon Teyla’s open palm.  “Fantastic,” he murmured.

“That he was,” she agreed, with a plaintive finality that voiced her sorrow.  A large, rectangular shape rested beneath the remaining storage cloth.  Teyla gasped as she slid the cloth away.  “I have…I have never seen this one…”  She bowed her head to hide the tears she could no longer hold at bay. 

Stephen draped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close.  She shivered against him. “He must have done this after I left Earth.  I wish…” Teyla sobbed, “I wish that I had known.”

This painting was unquestionably the finest of the works that Charles had set aside for his daughter.  A crowning achievement.  Teyla gazed wide-eyed at them from the canvas, her truth beautifully captured; the small curve of her smile, the soft fall of her hair, the unassuming kindness that lived in the depths of her doe-eyes.  She rested her chin against her palm, her hand angled so that the rich purple stone of her mood ring was visible.  She looked happy—and as though she knew the secret to happiness and would share it freely if only the viewer could awaken her image to speak aloud.  Walter Charles had painted the quiet miracle that had brought him fulfillment as no other soul in the world ever had, in a language that articulated his heart as no written or spoken word ever could.

Surely Teyla understood the image for all it had meant to her father.  She breathed hard several times, then made a desperate, strangled sound, before nestling her face in the crook of Stephen’s neck.   

The bitter taste of remorse filled his mouth, and Stephen’s hands flared with fresh spikes of pain, as he considered the talented hands that had created this striking portrait of a beloved daughter.  An artist’s hands that might have been given more time to share his talents with the world, if only a ‘hot-shot genius doctor’ had actually _cared_ about the patients that had sought his help. The painting seemed infused with the soft light of her gentle spirit, imbued with all the love her father held for her.  _An exceptional creation_ — _and I failed the man without a second look back_.

“I’m so sorry, Teyla,” he whispered, “So, so sorry.  I’d give anything to make this right…”

She was shaking her head against his words, “Please, Doctor, please just take me from this place.  I cannot bear this pain inside my heart.  I feel my father as though he is near, yet I will never hear his voice or feel the comfort of his embrace again.” 

“Of course,” he assured her, “Whatever you need, honey.”  He released her as gently as he could, to conjure a portal back to the sanctuary of Bleecker Street.

* * *

Understandably, Teyla had no appetite, but at Stephen’s stern insistence, she ate a little yogurt, and a few slices of mango, before retiring to the small room he directed her to for the night.  Though her body’s clock was still set to Kathmandu time—where it was early afternoon--he had a hunch he could coax her into some healing sleep.  Failing that, he would employ a small sandman spell, though that turned out to be unnecessary.

Feeling both the weight of his responsibility as her mentor, and the gnawing guilt that he might’ve made a difference in the quality and length of her father’s final days, Stephen sat at Teyla’s bedside, watching over her a while.  Watching as her breathing evened out and the lines of her body softened, knowing she had found the sort of solace—for a time—that he’d been unable to give her.  When satisfied she rested easy, he headed to his own room, planning to immerse himself in study, certain the peace of sleep would elude him—which was _precisely_ as he deserved.

* * *

It was that same old dream again, but with a wicked twist.  He dreamed it far less frequently these days, and if he took the time to analyze just why, Stephen would realize it was because he had finally shed much of the guilt which he had carried for more than half a lifetime.  Accepting that he bore full responsibility for his horrific accident, facing his demons in the aftermath, and recognizing that his medical career had never been of one of true service to others, had been a struggle that rivaled the constant physical challenges presented by his ruined hands.  Only the enlightenment that had come to him with his studies in the mystic arts had enabled him to accept the truth about himself, humbling him and inspiring him to be a better man than ever in his life.

His dream-self stood—as he always did--on the shore of one of the smaller Fremont Lakes, drinking a can of Coors, laughing with his friends, and flirting with the prettiest of his sister’s high school classmates.  He was only weeks away from beginning freshman year, and Stephen had been thinking that a little fling with Chloe Butler might be the perfect way to end the summer before heading off to study medicine at Creighton University.  His sister Donna had swum out toward the the center of the lake, headed for the swim platform to bask in the afternoon sun—swimming as effortlessly as she’d done at least a hundred times before, and he frankly wasn’t paying much attention. He should have been; if he had been, he might have reached her minutes sooner, reached her in time to keep her from going under that last time.

In reality, he’d only heard her call his name once, but in the dreams, her frightened voice always carried across the water to him, repeatedly calling for help, calling _his_ name, begging him to save her.  When he realized she was in trouble, he’d shucked off his scuffed leather boat shoes, the first of the young men on the narrow strip of beach to dive in, swimming frantically in her direction.  He was never to know for certain what had put her in distress; without a full autopsy (their mother couldn’t bear the thought of one), the best explanation they’d been given was a seizure of sorts, or something as innocuous as an ill-timed cramp.  And though his lungs burned with his effort to reach her, Stephen was still a dozen yards away when Donna sank below the surface with heartbreaking finality. 

In his dream, he relived again his frantic search for her in the dark depths of the lake, finally finding her, bringing her to shore, and breaking down after he was unable to resuscitate her.  But this time, instead of waking sweat-soaked and heart hammering the insistent beat of his failure and his guilt, the nightmare continued.  Though she was long dead and buried, Donna was there, in the flower of eternal youth, riding passenger with him in his Lamborghini Huracan.  _You failed me, Stephen_ , she intoned, her eyes flashing with bitter accusation; _you were my older_ _brother and you were supposed to look out for me, but you failed miserably_ ; and as the rain began to pound the windshield, she questioned him without remorse:  _how many_ _others did you fail in your egotistical short sightedness_?   

Stephen faced her, helpless to change the past, knowing his own fate was already sealed; in moments would come the crash and his car would hurtle off the road, breaking his hands beyond repair, robbing him of the life he’d worked so single-mindedly to establish for himself.  _You failed me, Stephen_ , she repeated, _as you_ always _fail the ones in greatest need_ …and just before the collision, Donna’s face transformed, and she was Teyla, but not angry--only sad, her indictments delivered quietly, regretfully, with a tenderness that matched her spirit in the waking world.  _You failed him, Stephen Strange; a_ better _man might have saved_ _my father_.  Somehow her words stung even more, for the gentle way in which she delivered them.  _You_ were _ever selfish, and blind to the needs of others, so perhaps there_ is _some justice in your fate, after all_.  And then she was gone, as his car spun and spun, and the pain was excruciating, and he knew in that moment that he deserved the pain, he deserved to have his old life ripped away…and if he spent a hundred years expunging his guilt through selfless service, he could never erase the misery, the loss, the deaths, of those he’d failed.  His dear, doomed sister.  Walter Charles, and those patients, who, like him, were not challenge enough to merit his valuable time and attention.  And now, his gentle Teyla…

“Stephen”.  Softly, yet urgently, spoken. “Stephen, you _must_ awaken.”  A concerned, familiar voice, summoning him away from his pain and self-recrimination.  Pulling him from the depths of his dream.  A hand— _her_ hand--upon his shoulder, soft but insistent, lightly shaking him back to consciousness.

“Teyla,” he murmured, still caught in the nightmare.  He needed to tell her.  Wanted to, but that would only bring her pain.  “Teyla…”

“Yes, I am here,” she answered, “I am here, Stephen.  Open your eyes.  See me beside you and know that all is well.”

His eyes fluttered open, unable to focus at first, and his heart was pounding, just as it always did in the wake of that nightmare.  Her hand on his cheek was soft and cool, her face hovering above his quietly merciful, the ends of her hair just brushing his skin. _Teyla of Hadeeth_.  How was she here, sympathetic as she tried to soothe him, the embodiment of clemency when he deserved only her scorn?  “Teyla?” he whispered, wondering if she was just the remains of his dream, and would vanish like mist if he dared to trust she was real.

“Yes, Stephen,” she answered patiently, “Leave those painful memories behind.  You must not torment yourself so.” Despite the grief he knew dwelled in her heart, her focus seemed to be solely on comforting him.  

“I was dreaming,” he rasped, feeling he ought to explain, and hoping he didn’t appear as weak as he felt.

“I know,” she told him, the calm of her voice and in her touch beginning to banish the anguish that had enveloped him.  “I dreamt as well, Stephen.  I saw enough to know, and I felt your distress, and now I am here because you are more than worthy of mercy—but such mercy must begin with yourself.”  She laid a hand over his heart, and an unexpected warmth spread through his chest.

Amazed at her perception, Stephen searched her eyes, reading her sincerity, unbelieving that redemption could be so easily gained.  He shook his head to clear away the vestiges of his nightmare, sitting up against the headboard.  He laid his hand atop hers, swearing he could feel the beautiful life force that inhabited her slender form.  “Teyla,” he confessed, “If you knew the truth, you might not be so generous…”

Her eyes told him before she spoke, that she was well aware of the part he’d played in her father’s story. “I already know all that I need to know, Stephen.”  His given name upon her lips, spoken without a hint of her usual formality, was a balm against his shame.  “You have paid a heavy penance for your past mistakes; you need punish yourself no longer.”

Stephen breathed deeply and closed his eyes, feeling entirely unworthy of the absolution she was offering.  “Do you understand, Teyla?  Your own father…”

She cupped a hand against his cheek, silencing him with a wise, sweet smile.  “I assure you, Stephen—I understand it _all_ …and I promise you that you are _not_ the man you were in those days.”  He opened his eyes, finding only compassion in her own.  “You have become your best self, through trial and pain.  I swear that you _are_ now the man you were destined to become…but you _must_ forgive _yourself_ \--for that will finally free you from this burden of guilt that weighs upon you so.”

Though awestruck by her heart’s true generosity, Stephen suddenly felt tired enough to sleep for a week.  “Yes,” she smiled, relieved on his behalf, “You must rest a while now, and come the day this darkness will fade to naught.”  Come morning he would wonder too, if she’d worked some gentle magic by simple touch alone. 

At her prompting, Stephen slid back down onto his pillow, allowing her to tuck the blanket around him.  He caught her hand in his before she stood up to leave; she didn’t seem surprised.  “You are most welcome, Stephen Strange,” she told him, then headed to his door.

“Just tell me this,” he said, a ghost of his usual cheekiness restored, so that she turned back to him from the doorway, “How are you so young, and yet so wise, Teyla of Hadeeth?”

She raised a brow—quite insouciantly—and he saw in her a bit of Moraine’s regal bearing, as she proudly replied, “I am both my mother’s daughter, and my father’s child as well.  I dare to believe that the best of both of them have found their union in me.”  Teyla gave a little shrug, and left the room—though the surprising smile she left upon Stephen’s face lasted long enough to see him into a more peaceful sleep of his own.  


	8. Chapter 8

The Sanctum was quiet, and Stephen hadn’t thought to set his alarm—so he wasn’t surprised that he’d slept later than he had in…well, probably since medical school _.  No, that’s not quite right_ , he reminded himself; post-accident, they’d dosed him up for both pain and sleeplessness, but he had never awoken in the hospital feeling completely refreshed, as he had this morning.  He’d battled depression, too, in those post-operative months, alternating between mourning his loss of purpose and angrily lashing out at the world for failing him where he just knew _he_ would have succeeded in managing a cure enough so he could work again.  He’d had plenty of days when he had slept twelve hours plus, feeling like there was no point in leaving his penthouse (growing emptier of furnishings week by week), let alone his bed.  Discovering the world of the mystic arts had rejuvenated him, and he applied himself religiously to learning everything he could, soaking up knowledge and skills like the thirstiest of sponges—just as he had in his university days.  Since the Ancient One’s passing, he seldom slept more than five or six hours a night; so much to do, so much to still master, a Sanctum to oversee—but it was a life that he loved.  Even more fiercely than his life in medicine.

Moreover, he knew exactly why he’d slept so soundly.  He had needed to, certainly—and his young Hadeethan Healer had given him an unexpected peace with her understanding and unconditional forgiveness, effortlessly reading his truest need.  Astounding, especially considering the burden of grief she was carrying.  The grief he was sole witness to.  He needed to find her at once.

Stephen dressed quickly, anxious to see how Teyla was faring.  He stopped by her room; the door was open, so that he could see that she had made her bed, but she was nowhere in sight.  He hurried down two floors to the common room, just off the kitchen, where most of Sanctum occupants took their meals.  Two of the Sanctum retainers were clearing away the breakfast things, but they paused to greet him; one asked if he would care for something to eat, and he politely declined.

“We have a guest staying with us for a few days,” he told them, eager to locate her, “A young woman from off-world—she’s been training at Kamar-Taj…”

One of the women was nodding in recognition, “Yes, Master Strange.  Teyla, right?”

“Yes…you’ve seen her?” he asked, a sense of relief settling over him.

“She was here earlier.  She had some tea and a little to eat.  That was about…hmmm,” the retainer looked to her partner for confirmation, “About an hour ago.”

“Do you happen to know where she went?”  Though Teyla was comfortable enough on the city streets the day before, Stephen would’ve preferred she wait for him before returning to her father’s loft.

The women consulted silently, before the second answered him, “She told us to tell you not to worry, Master Strange—and that she would not leave the Sanctum without your permission.”

“Oh.”  Surprised, but secretly pleased that Teyla had anticipated his concerns, Stephen thanked them, and then turned to leave.  Since she had to be somewhere in the building, a quick locator charm would make her easy to find.

He discovered her in the rooftop greenhouse, speaking with an Adept who was tending to the plants, herbs and greenery that were vital to spell work.  The hothouse also contained a modest assortment of fruits and vegetables—grown year-round to help meet the dietary needs of the Sanctum residents—as well as a bee hive, situated at the far end near a section of flower beds.  Teyla seemed very absorbed in the conversation, with the Adept explaining in detail the uses of the various florae.

Stephen approached them quietly, not wishing to interrupt until a convenient moment arose.  The Adept—a young man named Dominic--noticed his arrival, and broke off his lesson in order to tender a respectful greeting to the Sanctum Master.  Teyla immediately looked to Stephen.  The moment was sunny, warm, bright—and though he knew that she still mourned, there was a light in her eyes which spoke her gladness that he was near.

“Teyla,” he said simply, a world of gratitude and affection compressed into two syllables.  He felt his smile grow—nearly certain that he _had_ to look like an utter goof—and she answered with a tilt of her head, and an endearing, bashful sort of smile.  Stephen felt like he had stopped time, even though the Eye of Agamotto rested safely back in Kamar-Taj; his heightened awareness brought him the realization that something vital had changed between them.  Though he was still Teyla’s teacher and mentor, he couldn’t help but think of her less as a student, and more as an equal…as a friend…as a soul who’d seen his past pain and ongoing insecurities and somehow…somehow _understood_.  Without a need for words, without a call for explanations.

Amid those musings, he watched her eyes widen, and time began again–with Stephen well aware that she had read him once more.   _You’ve_  got  _to stop doing that, Teyla; some secrets need to be revealed slowly_.  He sent the thought her way, testing if she was actually reading his mind, or just his emotions.  Her expression did not change, but she beckoned him closer, her voice echoing slightly in the confines of the greenhouse.  "Are you well this morning, Doctor?”  Her greeting was solicitous, her manner deferential.

"I am, Teyla.  Very well, indeed,” he grinned, “I had the best sleep of any I’ve had in many years.”   _But you knew that already, didn’t you, my dear?_ You _gave that gift to me_.

"I hope you do not mind, Doctor Strange, but I was impatient to explore your domain," she informed him, "And Dominic has been kind enough to show me about the garden.  I had not expected to find such a lovely refuge atop a city building."

"Hmm...I never really thought of it that way, but I suppose that's true."  He came to stand beside her, dismissing the Adept with a small nod.  Dominic moved off, continuing his inspection and care of the next section of plants.

Stephen leaned close, lowering his voice for privacy sake, "How are you today, Teyla?  Was your sleep restful at all?  And is there anything I can do for you?"

"I am..." Teyla sighed softly, "I am...acclimating...to my new reality--one without the love and wisdom of my father to guide me."  Her voice broke, but she mastered her tears before they could claim the day, "But I carry him with me now, as never before--and I believe his spirit survives, merely in another form, so that someday I will look upon his face again."

"That's a lovely thought, Teyla," Stephen said, astonished at her resiliency, "It took me decades to discover that truth."  She looked to him, breathing in his sincerity as a comfort and as a fortification, "That we are so much more than random bits of material in an indifferent universe.  That thought has given me strength in even the most dire circumstances."

She bowed her head, whispering so that he barely heard her, "Even so, it shall for me."

He placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder, "You're not alone in this, honey.  Whatever you need, you only have to ask.  Even if it's just a shoulder to cry on."

Teyla raised her chin, her eyes focused on his.  As soft as they were, Stephen also saw her resolve to move forward despite her sorrow.  "thank you, Doctor Strange.  You have been a true friend to me--and I will remain forever grateful."

He shrugged modestly, "You are very welcome, Teyla of Hadeeth.  Though I think I owe you a larger show of gratitude..."

Her brow creased slightly, annd her eyes flitted from his to look past him, drawing his attention away.  "Something is wrong," she murmured, tilting her head toward Dominic.

The Adept stood several feet away, hands on hips, closely scrutinizing a row of berry bushes.  He shook his head, snorting in frustration, then headed towards the far corner of the hothouse.  A row of weathered gardening tolls leaned against the glass, beside an old wheelbarrow.  Dominic retrieved a spade, and then returned to the plant he had been examining.  Curious, Stephen went to join him, with Teyla following right behind him.

Dominic motioned to the bush, and Stephen saw that the fruit was badly discolored.  "That's some kind of fungus," he informed the Sanctum Master, "I’ll have to uproot it, or the rot will spread to the surrounding plants.”

“Is that really necessary?”

“I’m afraid so, Master Strange.  This one won’t survive much longer,” the younger man pronounced, “Just look at the currants—they’re inedible.  And they’d be useless as part of any potions or simples.”

“Well…if that’s our only option,” Stephen conceded, “No use wasting time.”  He motioned for the young man to continue.

The Adept nodded, and turned to complete the chore.  Teyla stepped forward and laid her hand upon the spade handle.  “Wait but a moment please, Dominic.  I believe I can work a cure upon this bush; I have seen similar sickness in fruit-bearing plants on my home world, and I may have a remedy.”  She looked to Stephen, eager yet respectful, “If you would allow it, Doctor Strange.  There is a Hadeethan spell that may be of some use here.  I have worked it at least a dozen times.”

“You think it might work on an Earth plant?”

“We cannot know until I try--but I should act quickly, or the damage will be irreversible,” she urged him confidently.

Curious to see a practical application of Hadeethan magic--and remembering the surprising charm of the floating flower petals which Teyla had created for the youngsters of Kamar-Taj--Stephen stepped back, allowing her the space to work.  She took several deep breaths, and then kneeled before the bush, exploring the leaves and berries with the lightest of touches.  Gingerly, she cupped a cluster of the pink currants in hand, and bent her face close, breathing them in as though seeking their scent.  She exhaled softly over them a few times, and Stephen was amazed to see their mottled pink and grey skin turn lavender for several seconds, before reverting to their sickly color.  "Yes," she said quietly, addressing the plant itself, "I see the ill and I believe that I can remedy your distress."

 Stephen glanced at Dominic, who appeared equally impressed with the plant’s response.  “It’s probably worth a shot, Master Strange.  Otherwise it’ll be a total loss.”

“Alright then,” Strange decided.  “Teyla, please—do what you can.”

She nodded, grateful for his trust, and then turned her attention to the task before her.  Teyla placed her hands palm to palm, as though in prayer, while resting her fingertips against her lips.  She began to hum a simple run of notes, repeating it several times before stretching her hands over the leaves and berries, and gliding them in a circular pattern which grew wider with each pass.  The circle became a figure eight, her hands confidently weaving to and fro as the notes she hummed rose in pitch and volume. A pale blue light began to emanate from the narrow space between her hands and the currant berries.  Stephen noted that it was less vivid than the blue that had accompanied the fall of flower petals which she had conjured for the young Novices, but coupled with her music, he realized it was a form of magic far different than that practiced by the sorcerers of Earth—a magic unfamiliar to him, even with his many forays across the multiverse.

Beads of perspiration had broken out upon Teyla’s brow, yet her concentration remained unwavering.  After several minutes of her sustained ministrations, her soothing melody rose in a crescendo, and then declined into silence, and the blue light pulsed several times before appearing to recede into the plant itself.  Teyla breathed a heavy sigh as her hands fell to her sides, and her shoulders slumped enough that Stephen thought for a moment that she might collapse.  “Teyla—are you alright.”

Her head bowed, she raised a hand, stopping him as he approached her.  “A moment please, Doctor,” she responded, sounding as weak as she looked, “I need just a little more time to recover.”

Stephen drew closer, thinking to help her to her feet, and Teyla turned to him with tired eyes and an ashy pallor.  She took his offered hand lightly—aware of the near constant pain that lived there—while advising him, “Sir, I will be myself again in short order.  But look, and you will see that the blight has been eradicated.”

And indeed it was, for the currant berries already looked more wholesome, their dull, murky pink transformed to the appealing translucence of pink champagne, the leaves and stems grown to a healthier green—and remarkably, fresh tendrils were unfurling themselves along several branches.

“Incredible,” he murmured, gently helping Teyla to stand, encouraging her to lean against him as she began to recuperate.  “It’s more than cured,” he observed, “The whole plant looks…rejuvenated.  What is this magic, Teyla—and will you teach it to me?”

Despite her weakness, she laughed softly, “Are you so eager, Stephen Strange, to be a student once again?”

“Learning is a lifetime adventure, Teyla—that’s a truth I’ve been lucky enough to discover firsthand.  I have never turned away the opportunity to learn something new.  Never in medicine, and never in the mystic arts.  But this,” he declared, incredulously, “This is a combination of the two.”  He shook his head, imagining the things he might have accomplished as a doctor if he’d had such magic at his disposal.  “When can we begin?”

“You flatter me, Stephen Strange, implying that I am fit to teach a Master any kind of magic.”  Her tone was gentle indulgence, and it occurred to him that that she might be teasing him just a bit.  “But if that is your will, I will try the best I can, providing you are patient.  _Ever_ patient,” she reiterated, “For the forests of Nalor did not spring to life in a mere cycle of the sister-moons.”

“And Rome wasn’t built in a day,” he chuckled, drawing a pretty smile from her.  The color was returning to her cheeks, and she drew away from him, no longer needing to lean against him to remain upright.  Stephen would’ve let her linger there beyond her immediate need to, but Teyla had already turned away, moving to rejoin Dominic in his rounds.

Curious to confirm the full success of Teyla’s cure, he plucked a few of the currants from the bush, and popped one into his mouth.  It burst with bright, sweet flavor the moment he broke the skin, so that he quickly consumed the others--thinking they were among the sweetest berries he had tasted in his life.

* * *

Knowing that she would be well out of her depth dealing with the financial and legal matters left behind in her father’s wake, Teyla had asked Stephen to contact her father’s lawyers and the Columbia Art Department Chairman on her behalf, so that he had spent a couple hours consulting with them by phone.  She also informed him that she felt strong enough to return to the loft unaccompanied; observing her carefully, he judged that she was ready enough to face whatever tasks lay ahead for her there—though he insisted she travel there via portal.  Stephen felt doubly responsible for her now, and ensuring that she was only an easily conjured portal away, was the best compromise at hand.

After addressing a few vital Sanctum concerns, Stephen visited the kitchen to pack enough hot lunch for two (with the cook shooing him out of the way as she bustled about her mealtime preparations), and then used a portal to join Teyla at her father’s place.  She greeted him warmly, though he could tell she had been crying once again—as he had known she would need to, choosing to do so in the privacy of her home away from home.  They dined at the kitchen table, with Stephen telling her that she _must_ eat the full plate of chicken and pasta with pesto, which he doled out for her, reminding her that she had barely eaten in the time since they had arrived in New York.  Obediently, she made her way through the meal, while he filled her in on the details of the financial and living arrangements her father had provided for her.

That done, he turned the topic back to her little morning miracle in the Sanctum’s greenhouse—giving her a welcome distraction from the grief that lay beneath the surface waiting for a quiet moment to break fresh upon her heart.

“It is not a magic exclusive to Hadeeth,” she started, “Though rarely found—according to my teachers--it is practiced by at least a few dozen cultures across the multiverse.  Its primary purpose is for healing, although you were witness to that minor charm I demonstrated for the young ones of Kamar-Taj.”

“That was a sweet little bit of magic, Teyla,” he reminded her.

She lowered her lashes demurely, genuinely flattered.  “It is quite elementary, Doctor…”

“Stephen, please, Teyla,” he urged her, “After last night—how you helped me—we don’t need to be so formal now, do we?”

She raised her eyes to meet his, surprised but clearly pleased, “As you wish…Stephen.”  Again, he found the familiarity of her use of his given name…quite pleasant…and the little smile that graced the corners of her mouth, gratifying.  She nodded graciously, and then continued, “Such spell-making relies upon the practitioner to engage in what we call _empathetic_ _magic_.  To not only discern, but to feel the subject’s condition and needs, and to bond with them enough to _experience_ it themselves--to some degree at least.”

 _Of course_ , Stephen realized, _that’s what makes it a_ perfect _magic for_ you.  “But there must be a cost of sorts to that,” he surmised.

“Indeed,” she admitted, “But oh, Stephen, it is a beautiful price to pay, to be of such service to those in need.”  For a heartbeat, Teyla nearly glowed with the joy of it. 

“So break it down for me, Teyla.  Tell me how to make a start.”  Stephen patted her hand, then left his atop hers, enjoying the soothing warmth which was ever present when his scarred flesh came in contact with her skin.  “Teach me. Please.”

She studied his face carefully, and nodded solemnly.  “I will do my best, Stephen,” she promised him, “For I see your desire to learn is honest and true.”

“Now—as you surely know,” she began, “All life—from the lowliest insect to the most accomplished and powerful Master of the mystic arts…”

He grinned at that, appreciating the humor of her not so subtle reference.

“…all life possesses a unique energy.  By attuning one’s own energy with that of the lifeform in need of healing, one can establish a harmonic resonance—a bond that enables a Healer to read exactly what injury or illness that lifeform suffers.”

“Harmonic resonance,” he repeated, making the connection, “The notes you hum?”

“Yes, in a large part, though there are other factors that bear upon the resonance as well.”

“And once you’ve established that bond, how are you able to heal the damage?” he challenged her, “How do you set things right?”

Patiently, she expounded, “Well, that is…hmmm…that is somewhat trickier to explain.  Let us call it a temporary exchange of energy.  And by this means, the Healer takes unto themselves a fraction of the damage…a shadow of the symptoms…an echo of the pain, where necessary.”

“That’s why you were weakened after you healed the currant bush?”

Teyla nodded, “Though as you witnessed, I did recover swiftly.”

“The side effects on the Healer—they’re only temporary?”  Stephen considered how revolutionary introducing such magic into regular training at Kamar-Taj might be, where those with the aptitude could make a difference in the suffering of hundreds of lives in the same span of time in which medical professionals might only help dozens.

Teyla hesitated, cautious in reply, “Most often, yes; they are brief and rarely debilitating.”

“Which means there _is_ a degree of risk?”  He had wondered about the downside of the promise of miracle cures—knowing well enough that nothing in the mystic arts came without some cost.

“The relief we offer to those in need far outweighs that risk,” she insisted, a little defensively, “At least for me and my fellow practitioners.”

“Risk nevertheless,” he asserted, easily reading her—for once—and what she left unspoken.  “In extreme cases, I’m betting you’d be putting your health and life on the line.”

Teyla nodded, “It is true.  But the work that you do, Stephen…the work that you and your fellow sorcerers do…is already far from risk free.”  She gave him that small, knowing smile—the one that told him she knew much more about him than she had ever dared to say aloud—and asked frankly, “Did you not lay down your life a thousand times over to protect and preserve this world, and every living soul upon it, from a most ancient, implacable malevolence?”

Stunned to have her mention it, Stephen’s mouth went dry.  “How…how do you know this?”  Was it something she had read in him—or something she’d been told about?

Her soft, brown eyes held infinite patience—and unabashed admiration.  With a wisdom beyond her seeming years, she told him, “ _You_ may not speak of your ordeal at the hands of Dormammu, but the story is already legend in Kamar-Taj, and on worlds far flung from here.  Yet you remain fully humble, even perplexed at times by the deference paid to by your peers…”

His mouth fell open, but he was speechless--transfixed by her gentle regard, and unable to muster his usual sort of blithe reply.  

“…and even the lowliest student here holds you in high esteem for that great and painful sacrifice,” she concluded.  “Truly, Stephen, would you now claim that the cost _you_ paid was not worth what you accomplished?”

Stephen closed his eyes; he could not deny those facts, though he did his best to avoid the memories of that time, and all the pain that it entailed.  The truth was he had made that choice with no compunction, never factoring in the price that he would have to pay.  And given that choice again today, he would do the same in a heartbeat.

Teyla brushed her fingertips across his knuckles, knowing his answer without him speaking a word.  “So you _do_ understand, Stephen—why there is no question of choice.  Your example is an inspiration to all those who study at Kamar-Taj.  To those who have learned of your deed across the many dimensions.”  She leaned nearer to him, her breath like a soft caress on his cheek, and his heart sped a little faster as he wondered if a third kiss was in the offing.  Realizing that if it were, he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from returning the favor. 

Instead, she lowered her gaze, so that his heart lurched with disappointment—and she added shyly, “As you inspire me.”

He was silent a moment, a mix of emotions swirling through his thoughts--not the least of which was berating himself for wanting to kiss a very vulnerable young woman.  _Not_ _the time or place_ ; he told himself-- _and certainly the most inappropriate thought I could have, given her condition_.  Stephen shook his head, declaring adamantly, "I'm no hero, Teyla--please believe me.  I am, in fact, the farthest thing in all the worlds from that."

She sat back, her eyes narrowed in such keen study of him that he felt his heart was laid bare.  "As you say, Stephen.  Though I perceive a destiny for you, in which your courage, brilliance, and selflessness will become the stuff of legends."

"Well in the meantime," he scoffed, feeling the heated blush of embarassment (and shame at his fleeting thought of kisses) color his neck and cheeks, "I'm just a man reaching through a fog of uncertainty, to try my best to do the right thing."

"Of course," she smiled, her faith in him unfaltering, "One day at a time, one deed at a time.  Your destiny will find you whether you believe in it or not."


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (This chapter contains a reworked version of the original one-shot which this story was based upon--so some of you may recognize it. If not for that little story, this one would likely never come to be. I wrote it originally because I love Stephen so much, that I ached to give him some respite from his misery. With this longer story--as you may have guessed--I want to give him a healing of his heart...and a good soul who loves him unconditionally.)

He’d slept like a log the night before, thanks to the enchanting combination of Teyla’s gentle compassion, and what he now was certain had been her subliminal use of empathetic magic.  But Stephen didn’t feel tired enough to sleep tonight; though it was well past midnight, he was restless, and his mind raced, always coming back to the revelations which the day had brought him.  Replaying the image of Teyla in the greenhouse, working her miracle cure on the dying plant.  Revisiting their conversation at the kitchen table, the forthright admiration in her eyes as she spoke of his solitary stand against Dormammu.  Not that he thought of himself as heroic—he had sincerely abandoned such egocentric ways when his eyes had been opened to the truth of the Universe—but somehow _she_ did, and according to her telling, many others did as well.  He didn’t want to dwell on that at all; hell, he’d prefer to blot that knowledge from his memory, lest that old temptation revisit him and he relapse into the selfish, lesser man that he had been.

On such nights, when sleep eluded him, Stephen sometimes left the confines of his body to roam the halls of the Sanctum in his astral form—making sure that all was well, running through the details of an imminent mission, or simply contemplating the wealth of mystical artifacts housed there.  Such nights might eventually lead him to stand watch over the city from the vantage point of the Window of the Worlds, or on fair-weather evenings, from the rooftop of the Sanctum.  Assuring himself that all was safely in order usually relaxed him enough so that he could sleep once his soul was reunited with his flesh.

Passing effortlessly upwards onto the rooftop, Stephen decided to check on the condition of the once ailing currant bush, to satisfy his curiosity about the extended effectiveness of Teyla’s Hadeethan cure.  Sure enough, he found it to be as well as it had been earlier, and with the sight granted him in his astral form, he could discern a faint blue glow edging the branches, leaves, and fruit; and where the blue merged with the pink of the berries, they glowed pale lavender.  Residue of Teyla’s spell work—and perhaps of her energy itself.

From the corner of his eye, Stephen caught a flash of movement; he turned to it, to find another astral form floating among along the rows of plants at the opposite end of the greenhouse.  _Teyla_.  Somehow, it didn’t surprise him.  Perhaps she’d come to check upon her handiwork as well—or perhaps to enjoy the beauty of the garden in the quiet of the night.  She had not marked his presence, as he watched her pass along, pausing periodically to bend near a particular plant for a closer inspection.  He noted that she took the greatest pleasure among the flowerbeds, before passing through the glass onto the rooftop, eventually to hover near the low brick wall that formed the boundary of the roof.  Stephen followed at a distance, reticent to interrupt her progress just yet, lest he startle her.

Fascinated, he watched her a while, charmed by the vision she presented.  Her astral form, so light and delicate, moved with a grace that echoed the graciousness of her spirit.  She was clothed in a simple, white shift; though rather shapeless, it draped her modest curves with soft femininity—and reminded him that he hadn’t even noticed what she’d been wearing when she’d come to his bedside the night before.  Teyla, loosed from her physical bonds, bore herself with a good measure of the regality, which Stephen associated with her mother—yet it was softer, somehow more approachable.

Teyla was gazing up at the stars, and even at a distance he could make out that she was singing; the words were surely her native tongue, but somehow they struck him as a song of praise or thanksgiving, even with her undernotes of plaintive longing.  He had to marvel that despite the grief she carried, she carried on, her heart big enough to overflow with gratitude for the beauty of nature here, far above the city streets.  For the light of the stars, and the glory of the full moon.  The picture she made played upon his imagination, so that the thought that she was some fey, pagan priestess at worship, became inescapable.  Stephen realized he could not observe her covertly any longer; that he would far rather disturb her compelling song, then sully the lovely image she presented by watching unannounced.

As he approached, she had lifted her face to the sky, her skin awash in the light of the moon and the stars, her eyes closed.  Teyla held her arms in an ‘x’ across her chest, and with a sustained, trilling note, she extended them into a wide ‘v’ above her head, as though she intended to gather the fall of moonlight to herself.

Hovering only feet away, Stephen cleared his throat to catch her attention, aiming to avoid startling her.  She turned to him with widened eyes, and his breath caught in surprise—for rather than the soft, deep brown, which he was accustomed to, they were a vivid blue, very like the color of the magic he had seen flow from her hands.  She seemed to take his measure, as they stared at one another, until she beckoned him forward with a nod and a bemused smile. 

In his astral state, his senses were heightened; he noticed other differences in Teyla’s appearance, which in his view made astonishing sense.  Her normally plain, walnut brown hair looked fuller, longer, and now held a silvery luminescence which reminded him once again of Moraine.  And her skin was paler than in her physical form, with an unexpected radiance, which instinct told him was the reflection of the purity of her soul.

Caught staring for longer than he should, Stephen shrugged, resorting to humor to cover his awkwardness.  “Of all the rooftops, in all the world,” he quipped in his best Bogart impersonation, “She has to astral project onto mine…”  He trailed off, realizing the joke had fallen flat, watching her brow knit as she tried to work out his non-sequitur.

Perplexed, she narrowed her eyes, “I…I do not understand…”

Stephen looked down, feeling a little foolish, “It’s nothing, Teyla.  Just a silly joke; a reference to a movie you’ve probably never seen.”

“Oh…I see…”  Amiably, she offered a chance to explain, “Please tell me, Stephen—what does it mean?”

He chuckled, despite feeling rather inept, “I guess it means that regardless of our differences, we somehow keep traveling the same path.  I never would’ve imagined that I’d meet you here tonight, and both of us in spirit.  Yet here you are.”  She blinked a few times, as understanding dawned upon her face.  “I used to think that sort of thing was a coincidence, but now,” he confessed, “…well…it does make one wonder.”

“Wonder what?” she asked ingenuously, drifting closer to him.

“Well—it seems like our lives have run a course meant to converge,” he shrugged, “I mean, I was the chief neurosurgeon at Metropolitan General, while you attended high school here in the Village.”  _That your father sought_ _my help several years ago—and I blindly turned him away_ ; a fact Stephen left unspoken, for Teyla’s sake alone.  “I became Master of the New York Sanctum, streets away from your Earth home.  And now here…tonight…”

“Yes,” she replied, “I see what you mean.  As though our lives were bound to…intersect.”  Though she looked pleased, she lowered her eyes, speaking under her breath, “And I dreamed of your hands all those years ago.”

“You did,” he asserted, close enough now to feel her gentle aura.  He wished she would look to him again.  “That’s nothing to be embarrassed about, Teyla.  I _like_ that our paths were meant to cross—it, uh…confirms my faith in my mission.  That I’m exactly where I am supposed to be, doing the work which the Universe must’ve intended for me all along.”

“Of course, Stephen,” Teyla nodded, her confidence bolstered, “As I am--I hope--doing what I am meant to do.” 

“I don’t doubt that one bit,” he reassured her, then turned to look out over the city. His city, and the reason he had come to rooftop tonight.  “But what brought you up here this evening,” he asked, breaking their companionable silence, “And if you don’t mind saying, what was that song you were singing?”

Teyla sighed, briefly considering her reply.  “A tradition of my people, older than even our written language.”  Her profile in the dark spoke eloquently of heartfelt love and loss.  “Upon the passing of a loved one, we celebrate their life under the blessed light of our moons.  We sing with joy regarding their greatest deeds and the kindness of their spirit.  We thank the Creator—as we call the Source from whence all souls come, and eventually return to—for the gift of their life.  We promise to honor their memory with acts that emulate their example.”  She bowed her head and nested her right hand against her heart, “We send our grief unto the stars, and make the best farewell we can…always with the hope that we will reunite with them someday, if not in spirit, then in a future life—for the wheel of life turns eternally.”

Her belief system was familiar to him, not only in its resemblance to several that currently prevailed on Earth, but as one he had encountered most often in his work across the multiverse.  Stephen had been faithless himself, from adolescence—but that had changed under the tutelage of the Ancient One.  Moved by her testament to that universal truth, he took Teyla’s free hand (the undiluted warmth of her aura merging seamlessly with his) and laid a quiet kiss upon her knuckles.  “I’ve never heard it described so poetically, my dear.  And I’m sure wherever his spirit roams right now, your father heard your song.”

Teyla gave him the small, bittersweet smile which he had already grown to treasure, and told him, “Such is my most fervent wish.”

* * *

 Stephen had stayed with her a while longer on the roof, and they spoke of a few things, while mostly just content to be in one another’s quiet company.  Teyla had finally bid him goodnight, gliding away soundlessly, and he had remained a bit longer, watching over the city as had been his original intent, before he retired to a dreamless, restful sleep.

Morning brought a driving rain upon the city, and Stephen’s hands throbbed with a pain that rivaled that of the initial weeks following his accident.  The morphine they’d given him in the hospital hadn’t always reduced his pain, but had made his mind foggy enough to allow him periods of escape from consciousness.  But there was no drug for _this_ pain—nor did he want one.  He needed a crystal clear mind to deal with the supernatural forces that had created a hotbed of plague-like illnesses and unnatural deaths in a remote village in the mountains of Bavaria--so that meditation would have to do.

Seldom had he been less successful at it; an hour passed, and his efforts proved futile.  Stephen hated to undertake the task ahead in such a muddy, distracted state, but he absolutely had no choice.  He washed and dressed—laboriously—went down to the dining area, took his place at the head of the table, and forced himself to eat some breakfast, knowing he needed to fuel his body for the magical chores that awaited him.  He hid his misery as best he could, even from the two Adepts who would accompany him into what might devolve into a mystical battle

Teyla joined him at table, wishing him a fair day, and he answered her too brusquely, informing her that she must return to Kamar-Taj for the next several hours—or at least spend the day at her Lafayette Street loft.  Confused and a little hurt, she accepted his decree meekly, focusing on her plate, and sneaking periodic looks his way.

Her meal finished, Stephen hoped she would leave him to his misery—but wasn’t surprised when she approached him cautiously, taking a seat on his right hand side.  Let me help,” she offered softly, “Please.”

Stephen answered gruffly, “You’re nowhere near ready to assist me in this matter, Adept.  And I can’t afford to divide my attention just to keep an eye on you.”  He hated how harsh he sounded, so far from the pleasant accord, which they had shared up on the roof only hours before—but it was necessary for now, and he would mend the break once he was free of his duty…and after his pain receded some.

A stubborn line creased her brow, but Teyla remained undaunted, addressing him exactly as he had asked, “Stephen.”  Patiently she waited for him to meet her eyes; the sympathy he saw there was no surprise either.  “I know you would not ask, but see now what I offer.  I can alleviate your pain, make it more bearable.”  She touched her fingertips to his, the spark there meant to help convince him.  “Your judgment is clouded, and your pride in this negates your usual wisdom.”

“Teyla, I would never impose my pain on you.  You have no idea what you’re asking,” he contended, clinging to his resolve, “And it just wouldn’t be right.”

“This is no imposition, for I freely make this offer,” Teyla declared, then added to her argument, “And as I came to this world to expand upon my skills, would you--as my mentor--deny me the chance to fulfill my calling?”

He huffed hard, accepting the inevitability of her offer, “Alright, but if it appears for even a moment that this will cause you harm, I’m out.  Is that clear?”

Teyla nodded vigorously, smiling in victory.

“So tell me, Teyla—what do you need me to do?”

* * *

 She had told him she needed time to prepare, asking him to come to her room in thirty minutes or so.  The door was closed when he arrived, and Stephen hesitated; maybe this was a bad idea after all.  Now that the time had arrived, he wondered how he might handle the disappointment if Teyla’s attempt should fail.  He wondered too, how such a failure might affect the young Healer.

She called to him from beyond the door, before he had decided to plunge ahead and knock.  “It’s open, please come in.” 

He found her sitting cross-legged on the bed, the room darkened but for the glow of a dozen candles, the familiar scent of frankincense wafting through the room.  It made for a very relaxing atmosphere.  “I’ll leave the door open, if it’s all the same,” he told her, “For, uh…propriety’s sake.”

“As you wish,” she replied impishly, “Though I assure you that your honor is safe with me.”  She rose from the bed, motioning for him to join her in the small alcove, where normally sat a desk and chair, along with a laptop provided for guest use.  Teyla had gotten another chair, so they could sit opposite one another as she worked the spell.

Once situated, she instructed him, “First, I would ask that you relax.  When you are calm, it will be far easier for me to read your energy.”

Stephen breathed deeply several times, doing his best to make his mind blank, opening himself to the experience.  “Good. That’s good,” she encouraged him.  “Allow your cares to fall away for just this little while.”

Teyla breathed deeply as well, as she had done in the greenhouse, and then spoke softly, “We are both as ready as we can be.  I have worked this spell for a variety of reasons—and your injury, severe as it is, is not the gravest I have faced.  I make no promise this will permanently end your pain—but I swear I will do what I can to lighten your burden.” 

Stephen nodded, dry-mouthed now that they had reached the crucial moment.  Teyla held out her hands, gently commanding him, “Give me your hands please…”

Reverently, Teyla traced the scars upon the back of his right hand and along the length of each finger, then gently flipped it over, to do the same upon his palm, moving on to his left hand in her own good time.  Stephen had not allowed such familiar contact with his damaged hands in ages, and his flesh sparked again at her soothing touch.  He found himself mesmerized by the softness of her patient exploration, understanding as he watched that her fingers were memorizing the patterns of his scars, and that she was methodically building a magic he had never seen before. 

“You must trust me now,” she told him, as she brought his hands palm to palm, laying her own atop and underneath them, “There will be pain, but I promise it will be brief.  You must not flinch or pull away, lest the charm I weave be broken.”  Her voice was hushed, but like her motions, held him spellbound.  “Can you do this for me, Stephen?  Surrender control in this moment to me, and do not fight the sensations you will feel.”

“Of course,” he replied, his voice a little hoarse with awe and anticipation—though he dared not hope she would succeed.

Teyla had his hands still sandwiched between her own; she had closed her eyes and was humming softly, a pleasant run of notes, which seemed to resonate in the bones of his hands.  Was he actually _feeling_ this lulling music beneath the skin, in his muscles, ligaments, joints?  Her head was bent close to their hands, so that her hair curtained them; how far different, he reflected, was her plain physical appearance, from the fetching luminescence of her astral form.  It seemed to him now, he could see the ghost of that unearthly beauty behind and beneath the pallid skin she inhabited; a beauty ever present but secret, except to eyes that had been opened to the astounding truth that Earth was only one among an infinite number of realities—and that she hailed from a far different reality than that which he called home.

Their hands were now wreathed in a bright blue light; an echo of the true color of her eyes, which he had glimpsed in his encounter with her astral form. His own hands grew warm and tingly as Teyla continued to work her spell.  She had called her unique gift _empathetic magic_ , and he was at last beginning to grasp what she meant.

Moments later, Stephen understood her warning that there would be pain; his hands flared with it, an agony that felt as though his skin was crammed full with shards of glass, a flash of heat so intense it was like fire burning through his every cell.  Despite his best intentions, he cried out, though he managed to remain still as Teyla had instructed.

“Almost there, Stephen,” she said through gritted teeth, “You’re through the worst of it—but please do not let go.”  The mounting pain screamed for him to pull away, but still he left his hands in her care.  He realized his breath was drawn in sync with hers—her own heavily labored with her efforts--and she began to moan softly.

Then, like a light switch being flicked off, the excruciating pain was completely gone. The suddenness shocked him, while the relief elated him, and he wondered if some phantom pain would reawaken before too long had passed.  Stephen watched in stunned silence as a map of pale scars took shape upon Teyla’s fingers and the back of the hand she rested on top of his.  He had not anticipated that.  She had prepared him to expect her hands to temporarily take on, to a lesser degree, the chronic pain that was his daily measure—but she had said nothing of bearing marks akin to his own; nor had his own scars faded in any way.

“It is done,” she told him, just as the cerulean halo that encompassed their hands began to fade.  She withdrew her hands, moving them most gingerly, as though she feared that even the smallest physical contact would bring a fresh bout of discomfort. 

Relieved of his own misery, he observed Teyla with a doctor’s practiced eye, noting the tremor in her hands—so like that which he had suffered from the day his bandages had been removed—and that she appeared weakened.  Beads of perspiration stood upon her brow, a bloom of hectic color on her cheeks, her mouth drawn tight as she acclimated to the bone-deep ache she had taken upon herself.  Stephen felt an urge to tell her he would take it all back, but knew she would deny that request.  “It’s bad, isn’t it,” he asked, helping her to stand, before guiding her back to her bed.

“No more than I can easily bear, I assure you.”  Settling on the mattress, she looked up at him, covering a grimace with the gamest smile she could manage, “And this will fade quickly enough.  You must not be concerned.”

“Is there anything I can do…anything I can get you to ease you through this?”  Again, the doctor in him, wanting desperately to relieve her suffering, especially knowing he was the direct cause.

Teyla smiled, more naturally this time, “I’m tired--very, very tired.  I should rest, perhaps sleep.  That will go a long way to alleviate the side effects of the spell.”

“Of course,” he nodded, watching as she lay back upon her pillow, settling onto her side.  Pressed for time as he was, he regretted the fact that he had to leave her so quickly.  Wishing there was still more he could do to help her, Stephen took the lightweight afghan that lay at the foot of the bed, and draped it across her slight form.  “I’ll see you’re not disturbed,” he promised.  And then, because he knew words were sure to fail him in the wonder of the gift she had just given him, he bent low and brushed a kiss upon her hair.  She gave a little sigh, before he turned to leave.

He’d reached the door before Teyla called to him.  “Stephen, I just want you to remember—the effects of this magic are rarely permanent.  I have given you perhaps days only, of relief from you condition; and if you’re lucky, weeks, perhaps a month or two.”   She yawned, looking nearly ready to drift off to sleep.  “I would it were more.  You deserve more.  But spend these days wisely, and if my bit of magic makes your tasks easier for a time, I know I have served a useful purpose for your world.”  With that, her eyelids fluttered shut, and she slept.

Only as he watched her breathing steady and slow, did he realize he hadn’t even thanked her—but then what mere words could he speak to prove the measure of his gratitude for such an unselfish gift?

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Again, a portion of this chapter may be familiar to my tumblr readers--I've been waiting a long time to add this chapter to Stephen & Teyla's story! ♡♡♡ )

The source of the contagion that had descended upon the once quiet, secluded Bavarian hamlet turned out to be more nefarious and ancient than even the wisest of the mystic brotherhood could have guessed; an object out of myth itself, buried for uncounted millennia beneath ice and snow and nearly impenetrable bedrock:  Pandora’s Box.  Discovered by a band of inter-dimensional treasure hunters--who moved between realities in a constant search for precious metals, gems and any other prized objects that might find buyers wherever greed and lust for wealth ruled—they had been ignorant of the box’s history, and wholly careless of its contents, concerned only for the profit it would bring to them.  The leader of the band—a bit wiser than the rest, having been in the business most of his life—had threatened dismemberment to any of his crew that dared break the seal of the box, but two (currently one-handed) knuckleheads had been both curious and rapacious enough to dare to open it, thinking to abscond with the riches inside and set themselves up nicely in their own salvage operation.  Disaster followed.

Half the crew had fallen ill before the rest had established a quarantine via force field around the village.  Knowing that they were in way over their heads, some wanted to put as much distance as possible between themselves and Earth; others reckoned that the increased value of the artifact opened up a whole new market.  They planned to showcase the village, held in stasis by their force field, as living proof of the box’s efficacy.

Word eventually reached Kamar-Taj—via a loose network of informants and inter-dimensional spies--and a group of sorcerers went to investigate.  The fix was a two-pronged effort; expulsion of the off-world miners and cures wherever possible for the ill.  Several Masters from Kamar-Taj joined Doctor Strange to complete the clean-up, employing memory charms where needed to erase the incident from the villagers’ awareness.  An avalanche was blamed for the dozen plus deaths that had occurred before the mystic intervention.

The box proved indestructible, so that Stephen himself carried out the final, necessary task.  After binding it in multiple layers of protection to keep it permanently sealed, he journeyed to a deep, deep space beyond the Milky Way, to within a safe distance of a small, seldom detected black hole, and cast it inside.

The mission had taken twice as long as he had anticipated—however, his hands remained pain free for the duration.  And though his mind was fully focused on his vital priorities, there were moments—as he watched the magic flow from his own hands—that he felt Teyla’s energy with him still.  A warmth in his bones there, which he had carried since she had woven her spell—and which somehow reverberated as a comforting sensation in the center of his chest.  Once all was set to right in Bavaria, he eagerly looked to return home.

In his absence, Teyla had resumed her studies at Kamar-Taj—which Stephen hoped meant that the pain she had taken on as a side effect of her spell on his behalf, had dissipated.  Quietly disappointed to find her gone, he moved about his daily duties as Sanctum Master as efficiently as ever, but was restless in what little downtime he had, wishing for a valid reason-- _beyond_ checking up on her health and progress--to pay a visit to the compound in Kathmandu.  Three full days found his patience for word of Teyla’s wellbeing exhausted, so that he made an unscheduled trip back to Nepal.

He arrived mid-morning, to the familiar heat and humidity of late summer in a near equatorial zone.  Several students and teachers greeted him as he hurried through the courtyard on his way to the library—his usual first stop on any return to Kamar-Taj.

The library was refreshingly cool, after the heat outside, and he found Wong taking inventory amidst the stacks, pulling out the odd book that sat out of order, to reshelve it in its proper place.

“Stephen, I didn’t expect to see you so soon,” Wong eyed him dubiously, “Is there some matter of urgency that brings you here?”

Stephen shrugged casually, “C’mon now, Wong—since when do I need an excuse to pay a visit to my favorite librarian?”

Wong pursed his lips and regarded Stephen silently.

“Ok, so…uh…things were just too quiet in New York,” Stephen tried to explain.  “I started to wonder if I was missing out on any fun here.  You know, uh…a rash of demonic visitations on the locals…or disruptions on the astral plane…or maybe some unusual weather patterns caused by…sunspots,” he sputtered, “…that kind of thing.”

Wong turned back the shelf he’d been working on.  “Really, Stephen,” he grunted, crouching to grab a volume from the bottom shelf, “And you wouldn’t be anxious for an update on your favorite protégé?”

“Uh-what?”  Stephen scoffed, squinting and wagging his head, hoping to conceal the fact that _that_ was the primary question on his mind.

Wong pointedly looked past Strange, and cocked his brow at someone behind him, so that before he had turned to look, Stephen just knew that it was Teyla.  In that unguarded moment, he read her as swiftly as she so often read him.  She panted softly, as though out of breath, and Stephen allowed himself the secret pleasure of believing that was on _his_ account; that she had hastened to the library upon hearing of his return.  And her honest, artless smile was surely just for him, and seemed the sunshine which he now realized he’d been missing since his time in Bavaria—and that the want of that same sunshine had been the most compelling of the reasons he had returned to Kamar-Taj this day.

Stephen glanced back at Wong, noted his quiet smirk, and understood that Wong had unerringly discerned those reasons.

“Master Wong,” Teyla nodded her greeting, and then lifted her eyes to meet Stephen’s, “And Doctor Strange.  I was gladdened to hear that you had prevailed in your recent task.”  A flicker of hesitation crossed her face, before she added diffidently “And heartened, Sir, to see you well and safely returned to us now.”

He remained very conscious of Wong at his back, but his growing smile gave his answer before he even made a sound.  “Thank you, Teyla,” Stephen replied, letting the warmth of her tender regard wash over him, “I am, uh…always happy to find my way back here.”  His eyes flitted to her hands, tracing the pale lines that were the remnant of the kindness she had done him, and his voice grew thick with gratitude, “I hope you are well, Teyla of Hadeeth.”

“I am, Sir,” she assured him, clasping her hands before her so he could see that she moved them easily and free of pain, “And suffer no ill effects from last you saw me.”

Stephen nodded vigorously, relieved, “Good.  Very good.”  He patted his chest, above his heart, “That’s, uh…heartening _to_ me.”

Teyla bowed her head modestly, clearly understanding everything he had left unsaid, given Wong’s presence.  When she raised her face again, she was the picture of calm composure, with just a pretty trace of her former smile left to light the moment, “Now, if you will excuse me, Masters, I am due to meet with Master Salma shortly.”   Her eyes lingered upon Stephen’s a second more, and then she had passed from the room.

Stephen exhaled, knowing he was grinning like a fool, and letting himself enjoy the feel of it before he turned to face Wong again.  Wong was chuckling, as he so rarely did.

“What?”  Stephen aimed for incredulity, though in truth he knew he had just earned Wong’s reaction.

“You are ‘heartened’, Stephen?” Wong t’sked, shaking his head, “No wonder the girl has a crush on you.”

Stephen huffed and rolled his eyes.  “No, Wong—it’s not like that at all.  Something…something serious happened in New York.  I helped her through it, is all…”

“Really?”   Wong watched him skeptically.

“Yes,” Stephen insisted, his voice deepening with emphasis, “We got to her dad’s place, and…well…found out that he’d passed away a few years ago.  She was pretty…devastated.”

“I see,” Wong nodded, “Pardon me, Stephen—I should not have implied…”

Stephen quickly waved off the apology, “No, no…its fine, Wong.  It’s all…good.”   But he felt obligated to add, “Truthfully, though, things _have_ changed between us…between Teyla and I…”

“Oh?”  Wong waited for Stephen’s clarification.

But what could he say?  It was far more than her father’s passing.  Certainly he had helped her through the early stages of her mourning—watching her then, and even now, as she carried her grief with a quiet dignity that shamed him for his behavior in the wake of his accident and loss.  After New York, Stephen recognized that they shared a deeper bond than he ever would have expected; an unspoken understanding that was grounded in having seen—without a filter of any sort—one another’s sorrow and grief, pain and remorse.  Teyla had helped him far beyond the comfort he had given her, reckoning the guilt is kept compartmentalized, and showing him that he was worthy of forgiveness.  That he must—even if it came slowly and gradually—learn to forgive himself.  How was he to make Wong understand what was too dear to him right now to share with anyone?

“Look.”  Stephen extended his arms out, palms facing downward.  “Look, Wong.”  His scarred hands were straight and rock-steady, no trace of tremor to be seen.  “She worked a spell for me.  A Hadeethan spell.  Look,” he insisted, flipping his hands over, and flexing them closed and open again several times.  “I’m pain free right now, Wong.  She told me it would be temporary—but do you have any idea what this means to me?”

“I think…I think I can imagine, Stephen,” he answered, still conciliatory, “That’s remarkable.”

“It is,” Stephen agreed. “She took a share of my pain into her _own_ hands, Wong—for a time,” he added swiftly, seeing the question arise on Wong’s face, “Just for a time—and she’s…she’s fine now.  I swear.  I wouldn’t have allowed it if I knew it would be otherwise.” 

“Of course, Stephen.”  Wong’s eyes drifted toward the library doors, considering the young woman who had come and gone so quickly, “A remarkable student with a remarkable gift.”

“Yes—that she is.”  Stephen grew distracted, musing how far different Teyla was from the unassuming, almost timid, stranger that had been sent for fostering at Kamar-Taj.  In a relatively short time, her true nature had asserted itself, and he was lucky now to see her with eyes anew.  Not a child or mere teen, but a grown woman who embodied patience, kindness, and compassion; a bright soul who lived fearlessly, even if it left her tender heart at hazard.  He smiled wryly, as he admitted to Wong, “I think I’ve actually learned a helluva lot more from that remarkable young woman, then I’ve managed to teach her.”

“If you say so,” Wong replied, before turning back to his task, “I just hope you don’t let that girl fall into the habit of hero worship.  We both know you’ve got feet of clay.”

“I know…believe me, Wong, I am painfully aware of my inadequacies,” Stephen chuckled, “Continually aided by your willingness to point them out whenever possible.”

“Always my pleasure, Stephen.”  Wong slid a book decisively home, “It’s a service that I will unselfishly provide—for as long as you need me to.”

* * *

Stephen reassumed the satisfying pattern of his life, continuing to shuffle between New York and Kathmandu—and if he was prone to visit Kamar-Taj more often than in the past, Wong made no comment.  Immersed in her studies, Stephen rarely saw Teyla, usually only catching sight of her in the courtyard, where she always raised a hand in hello as their paths crossed, her sweet smile a beacon that beckoned him near, though he was seldom at liberty to stop and speak with her.  The whole while, he continued to ponder just how he might thank her for the selfless favor she had done him.  As he drifted off to sleep one night, the answer came to him in a flash of inspiration.

He met with her one afternoon, in the library again—which he had discovered was one of her favorite places to spend downtime in Kamar-Taj—ostensibly to go over her progress in recording and interpreting her dreams.  They talked a little while, and she seemed pleased with how her understanding of that gift was growing, though she maintained that she had dreamed nothing truly prophetic in months.  As their session drew to its close, Stephen finally broached the topic they had not spoken of since the miracle she worked for him.

“You know, Teyla,” he told her, watching her pack her things into her straw sack, “I’m still pain free.  And I don’t think I ever adequately thanked you.”

She kept her focus on her hands as she slid her dream journal into her bag, “There is no need to thank me, Stephen.”  He was pleased that—in private, at least—she didn’t hesitate to use his given name. “Your wellbeing and the success of your work—those things are thank you enough.”  Her hair hung down around her face, obscuring her expression, but he heard her sincerity in every syllable.

“Well now, _I_ don’t quite think so, young lady,” he insisted, and took her hand to garner her attention—and again, that spark of warmth that came on contact with her flesh, reminded him of their extraordinary connection.  “And I found a way to show you—at least a bit—how much your gift means to me.”

Teyla looked to him, curious yet cautious, “If that is your wish, Stephen, then…then how can I decline?”

“You can’t,” he laughed softly, patting her hand, “Because in this case, it’s ‘doctor’s orders’, as we say here on Earth--so I won’t be taking no for an answer.”

She nodded gratefully, speechless but looking relieved.

“Excellent,” he told her, rising from his seat, “Meet me in the courtyard tonight at seven.  Dress casually.”  Again she nodded, now looking intrigued, before she bid him goodbye.

“And, Teyla,” he added, causing her to turn back to him at the doorway, “Be sure to wear some comfortable shoes.  We’ll be doing a bit of walking.”  Teyla grinned, her still brow knit inquisitively, and left him for the meantime.

* * *

The air was clear as crystal, the night cool enough after an oppressive day of heat, so that they walked comfortably through the garden dusk, close enough to touch, and yet not touching--unless one’s arm might brush, by chance, against the other’s.  Stephen wore jeans and an open-collared, sappphire blue silk shirt, which he had conjured up just for the occasion; he knew he looked good—even though he knew he needn’t give his appearance a second thought.  Teyla had opted for simplicity as well, in a floral sundress and comfortable looking espadrilles.  Stephen had needed to jumpstart their conversation several times, as Teyla was nervous at the beginning of their stroll, until he began to ask her about Hadeeth. 

“…and mating rituals are somewhat different on my world,” she was explaining,  “Far less for pleasure—than is the custom here—more straightforward, with their purpose clearly for procreation.  My mother had observed this…anachronism…recalling a time in our history when our people had allowed such hungers for physical satisfaction to rule our heads.”  Teyla lowered her eyes diffidently, “We were a people willing to disregard reason, common sense and—worst of all—compassion, in selfish pursuit of the carnal.  Then came the great awakening, and we chose to direct those energies to more…altruistic…pursuits.”  She looked back to him, a sheepish smile playing at the corners of her mouth, “Mother grew curious enough to dare what was discouraged on our world. There was a man whom she found pleasing—not only to her eye, but to her heart...”

“Your father,” he murmured, mesmerized by the soft cadence of her voice, and the little inflections that reminded him that English was not her native tongue.

Teyla nodded, “My father, yes.  He was a good man, Stephen; and to his credit, he loved her dearly--as he did me.”  She closed her eyes a moment, clearly calling him forth in her mind, softening visibly as she did so.  “He sheltered me at a time of peril and uncertainty on Hadeeth.  And he did his best to educate me in the ways of humanity, allowing me to at least _pass_ for an ordinary--albeit awkward--teenager.”

“But you never quite fit in,” he surmised, from other little things she had said regarding her years on Earth.

Teyla shrugged, not needing to dwell on the past, “It did not matter; I managed well enough, and if I had few friends, they were true--and judged me not that I was different.”  She laughed quietly, “Is that not the way for many adolescents of your world?”

Stephen chuckled in agreement, “I suppose it is.”  Recalling his own teenage angst, he added, “But most of us outgrow that awkwardness with time and experience.”  Then reckoning how very far his path had taken him, he told her, “And if we’re very lucky, we turn out to be the people destiny intended us to be.”

They had reached the far end of the garden, the moonlight casting a shimmer on the reflecting pool.  Teyla took a seat upon a worn, marble bench, then inclined her head as invitation for him to join her.  “A lovely night,” she mused, then laid her hand on top of his.  The pale scarring she had taken on when she worked her spell upon his damaged hands had all but vanished.  “Thank you for bringing me here, Stephen.  Such simple beauty leaves an imprint on the heart; a quiet, welcome comfort to savor now, and to remember well in days when we have trials to face.”

“It’s been my pleasure, Teyla—and the very least I can do to show my gratitude.”  He felt he should do more, far more, and yet he knew she expected nothing; her freely given gift had brought her pain, but such giving came as naturally to her as breathing.  The only thing that she had asked was for him to use his own gifts well and wisely in the service of his world—something he had pledged to do long before they’d met.  “Your mother mentioned you would face a test of sorts sometime in the future,” he pondered.  “Has that time grown near?”

Teyla sighed heavily, reluctantly reminded of the tasks that lay ahead for her.  “No talk or thought of that tonight, Stephen.  Tonight I long for the tranquility of a quiet garden and the companionship of a kind man.”  To her credit, she sounded light of heart.

“Then I will see you have exactly what you wish, my dear.”  Moved by her tender regard for him, Stephen raised her hand and kissed her knuckles, and then looked out upon the water--wondering if in this setting Teyla might find that little act too forward…or perhaps wish that he might be moved to more.  

Instead, she rested her head on his shoulder, humming contentedly.  Some unknown nightbird called out from the grove of fruit trees on the far side of the still pool; its sweet song was soon taken up by another.  In such a setting, Stephen found it easy to imagine they were mates, their pleasant trilling the joyful greetings exchanged as they came together after being parted for too long.  That he was indulging in such uncharacteristically soft musings perplexed him, like a language long forgotten from disuse—until he considered the light of the moon, the garden’s perfume, and the gentle woman leaning against him.

“Your moon is quite enchanting, isn’t it,” she pondered, and he realized she was likely picking up on his emotions without even meaning to; second nature to her surely, but a marvel still to him.  “But she pales in comparison to the moons of Hadeeth.”

“Moons?” he asked, giving her the encouragement to tell him more; he could not read feelings nearly as well as was her wont, but the trace of longing in Teyla’s voice spoke well enough that she was feeling at least a little homesick.

“Moons,” she repeated, raising her head to look at him directly, eyes wide with delight, “Anya, the eldest, wise and steadfast in her orbit, ruler of the tides.  Enya, middle child, ever brightest of the three, mistress of all nocturnal creatures; she speeds apace or lags behind as her stubborn nature dictates.”  Her voice had fallen into a storyteller’s captivating rhythm; Stephen could picture a circle of Hadeethan children at her feet, listening raptly as she shared with them the folklore of her people.  “And Nonya, wayward youngest of the three, ever eager to appear _before_ the sun has fully set, and last to leave the sky each dawn.” Teyla lowered her eyes shyly as she added, “Nonya is thought the patroness of lovers and their secret trysts.”

Stephen chuckled softly, charmed by both her tale, and the bashfulness that had overtaken her at the mention of lovers’ assignations.  “That’s far more exotic and appealing than some of earth’s legends about the moon; there’s one ridiculous one that maintains the moon is made of cheese.”

“You can’t be serious,” she laughed, “Who would believe such an outlandish idea!”  With narrowed eyes, Teyla studied his face, searching for any sign that he was teasing her, “Oh—but surely you jest?”

“I swear it’s true, Teyla—though I like the poetry of your moons far more than the foolishness of mine.”

That brought a pretty smile to her face, lighting her dark eyes with mirth.  Stephen wondered if she even realized that she was flirting with him; he would _swear_ it had been the furthest thing from his mind when he had invited her for an evening stroll through the National Botanical Gardens of Kathmandu.  Recalling her love for green and growing things, he’d only thought it a good way to show some measure of his appreciation for the kindness she had done him—but Teyla’s innate softness, her gentle guilelessness, coupled with the freshly risen moonlight, had him feeling more than gratitude.  Had him curious if she would shiver were he to brush his fingertips lightly upon her cheek; had him contemplating how her lips might taste should she eventually yield them to his.  He had not been prepared in the least for this sudden longing she’d awoken in him, having lived the purely ascetic life since his initial arrival at Kamar-Taj.

Unaware of his train of thought, Teyla carried on, “I would show you our moons, Stephen Strange.  Should you find time to visit Hadeeth, you might be witness to a marvelous natural wonder.”

“I should like that very much, Teyla of Hadeeth,” he admitted, his voice grown dusky as he speculated if she’d meant to make him feel these things.

She either read it upon his face, or discerned his feelings on the light breeze that stirred between them, for she gasped and looked down.  Stephen flushed with concern that he’d made her uncomfortable—a fear briefly confirmed when she raised her face again, frowning slightly…until she stammered an apology, “Stephen, forgive me please. I should not have waxed on so witlessly of the ancient superstitions of my people.”

“Nonsense,” he sought to assure her, “It’s good to know our races are not so dissimilar after all; boys have sought kisses from girls in the moonlight, from well before recorded time on Earth as well.”  He took her hand again, squeezing it gently for emphasis, and leaned in to tell her confidentially, “I haven’t _always_ been a man this age, you know; as a boy I sought my fair share of moonlight kisses from pretty girls—as I’m sure you’ve received a good portion yourself, in your time here, if not on your home world. You needn’t be ashamed to speak of as pleasant a thing as that.”

Teyla opened her mouth to speak, then lowered her gaze again, quietly advising him, “I have not.  I was never pretty enough to suit most boys of this world, nor was there ever opportunity on Hadeeth for me to engage in such…”  She paused, as if searching for a word to justify her lack of experience, “…such…superfluous pursuits.”

In his astonishment, he could not help but ask, “Not even once?”

“By moonlight, no,” she answered, raising her chin proudly against feeling somehow inadequate, “But I’ll have you know I _have_ kissed several boys, whilst I lived with my father and attended secondary school.”  She shrugged, attempting to negate the value of the experience, “It seemed enough of a social convention that I _had_ to, in order to be accepted among my peers.”  She studied his face intently, perhaps curious as to his reaction to the next.   “In truth, Stephen, such kisses never struck me as worth the fuss that the other girls made of them.”

“Perhaps because they were _boys_ ,” he suggested wryly, moving his face close enough to feel the warmth of her breath on his skin, “Perhaps you would be better served to try again--with a man, not a boy.”

“I…I know not,” she gasped, surprised he’d moved so close, but brave enough to ask, “What…what man might seek such a taste of _me_?”

“Oh, Teyla,” he said softly, cupping his hand along her cheek, “You pride yourself in how easily you can read others’ emotions—can’t you tell what I’m feeling right now?”  Having come to the place--which he had been denying for some time was his truest destination--Stephen chose to face it fearlessly.  As fearless in this, as he had seen the lovely woman beside him, face far less pleasant things.  The voice of Wong tried to make him hit pause; it isn’t right, she is your student, it told him—but Stephen silenced it with the assertion that his bond with Teyla had surpassed that stricture some time ago.

She closed her eyes and nestled her cheek against his palm, then moistened her slightly parted lips, possibly aware--at last--of his intention. Her reply was soft as a longing sigh. “I…uh…sometimes my own emotions cloud my understanding of another’s.  Perhaps you,” Teyla exhaled slowly, striving a moment more to master the magnetic pull between them, and then looked up at him with fearless clarity, “Perhaps _you_ could help me understand.”

His mouth quirked into a half-smile as he brushed her hair behind her ear, leaving his hand to rest there.  “Nothing would give me greater pleasure, my dear--though I’ve found that often actions speak more clearly than words,” he told her patiently, “I would very much like to kiss you now, Teyla—but _only_ if you want me to.”

Stephen held his breath as she considered his request, reading her answer in her eyes before she spoke.  “I…I would like that, Stephen.  Very much, if…if you truly wish it so…”  Teyla trailed off, while her eyes fluttered shut in anticipation.  He closed the little space left between them, laying his lips feather-soft upon hers, lingering a moment before brushing his lower lip against hers, gently nudging her to respond.  Her lips relaxed in reply, allowing him to deepen the kiss, until she whimpered against his mouth. 

Withdrawing only a little, he rested his forehead against hers.  “That was nice, now, wasn’t it,” he asked her quietly, “And surely better than those fledgling kisses in your past?”

She only nodded her head against his, firmly enough to tell him he was more than right--and then surprised him as she laid one hand along his neck, and the other on his face, sliding her fingertips into his hair.  “It was…hmmm…it was…delightful,” she admitted, her doe-eyes warm and newly inviting  “But somehow it seemed…incomplete.”  Smiling shyly, she offered a suggestion, “Perhaps…perhaps there is more you would show me?”

“Gladly,” he rumbled, from a deep, satisfied place in his chest, tilting her face back and letting his mouth hover over hers, a delicious tease of what was to come.  Now that they’d come to it, Stephen wanted to savor every moment; but even more, he wanted to show her the wonder he found her to be.  Her untested lips were soft, modestly pink, and wholly willing to follow him; her trust in him palpable.  It made for an intoxicating combination.

“My sweet Teyla,” his whispered, before laying his lips gently against hers again and  bestowing several chaste kisses upon her—while he still had the presence of mind to go slowly—and gaging her response.  With each kiss, her lips grew more relaxed, her fingers in his hair pressing harder.  He now cupped her face with both hands, delighting in the smooth warmth of her skin, and the little puffs of breath she gave between the tease of his gentle kisses.

“Those Earth boys were idiots,” he murmured, kissing her cheeks as she sighed in reply, and then caressing along her cheekbones with his thumbs.  Slowly, he worked his way back to her mouth, still pacing himself, wanting her to understand that he treasured her—and the amazing gift that she offered him now. 

He paused long enough, his mouth a hairsbreadth from hers, so that she opened her eyes; deep, dark pools that invited him in, but also questioned what he was waiting upon.  “For you to see me, Teyla,” he answered, and she smiled a little that he had indeed read her thought, “For you to see that _I_ see that you are beyond simply pretty.  You are lovely in a rare and wonderful way.  More lovely than the most beautiful of women—for their beauty is only skin deep…”  Stephen felt unfamiliarly moved, in the way of a poet or artist at the point of discovering the rarest inspiration.  “…but your beauty, Teyla, is soul-deep and eternal…and I thank god that I’m blessed enough to see it.”  He kissed her chastely one last time, and when she moaned his name, the need to possess her lips, her mouth, her very essence, obliterated his control at last. 

And Teyla?  She yielded to him without hesitation, melting beneath his open mouth, learning in full the secret of moonlight kisses, feeling cherished in his embrace while trusting completely in his intent---and happily, _happily_ following his lead. 

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (posted on the fly, due to wifi difficulties--so please forgive any typos; I will fix things when I have the luxury of time)

Stephen lost track of the time, as they lingered by the reflecting pool, the weight of his responsibilities set aside as he hadn’t allowed himself in what felt like forever--his only obligation become the most simple and natural of them all:  that of man to woman.  Despite his burgeoning desire, he remained quite conscious of Teyla’s inexperience, while rediscovering the bliss of slow, deep kisses for the first time since his youth—before kissing became a means to an end, rather than a pleasure in and of itself.  Her gradual, gentle surrender to him thoroughly conquered his heart, as she allowed his lips to trail from her mouth to the delicate skin beneath her ear, and then along her neck.  Teyla breathed hard in surprise as he brushed aside the thin strap of her dress so that his lips could wander the tender flesh of her shoulder; she leaned her head back as he kissed his way to the hollow of her throat, while he savored her warmth and the small sounds of pleasure she gave over to him. 

Relishing how Teyla clung to him, and how softly she yielded to him with each small advance, Stephen found her lips again, tasting her willingness in the play of their tongues, while he traced his fingertips upon her bare skin exposed by the neckline of her dress.  The pounding of her heart, so near his touch, found its answer in the beat of his blood, emboldening him further.  She moaned irresistibly when he finally laid his palm against her breast; though he dared not seek to touch her flesh beneath the flimsy material quite yet, he cupped her gently, noting the firmness of her youth, as well as the effect of his touch upon her.  He knew in that moment that he was the first man to ever touch her in that way--that realization enough to dizzy him, and make him ache for more.  He opened his eyes, needing to see her as she panted her earnest response.  

The moonlight had painted Teyla’s skin with a glow akin to the luminescence of her astral form, and the sudden thought of how she might look with _all_ her skin revealed, ripe and ready for the taking, was nearly too much for Stephen to bear.  He’d been alone, without the soft comfort of a woman in his bed for so very long, though his life had been too full since he began his training at Kamar-Taj for him to even miss it—but he wouldn’t dream of violating her innocence, or profaning her precious trust, despite the sweet temptation she presented.  Teyla felt his change of heart before he’d even stemmed his ardor, and she looked up at him, puzzled—but closed her eyes when he reached to stroke her cheek.  “Too much, too soon?” she whispered, reading him all too well.

“Yes, honey,” he admitted, “Much too soon.”  Stephen shook his head, remorseful for his lack of discipline, “Forgive me, Teyla.  Please.  I shouldn’t have let things get so out of hand.”  She opened her eyes, solemn and accepting his choice without protest, nodding quietly.  He smiled despite the disappointment that was settling into his bones, hoping she could read _everything_ he was feeling.  “You just…” he exhaled slowly, striving to calm the need roused by their encounter.  “You make me want to go fast, honey.  You make me want it all,” he confessed, “But you deserve so much better than that, Teyla.  You deserve for us to take our time.”

She nodded, gifting him with a sweet little smile, “As you wish, Stephen.  I would follow your lead in this, as in all things now.”  Made shy by his honest admission, Teyla cast her eyes downward, as she told him, “I have never felt this sort of…,” her voice caught at the thought, “…physical longing before, and I know that I _must_ rely upon your judgment…and restraint.”

Silently, he studied her face by moonlight, memorizing the mix of trust and newly awakened desire which she wore.  By some unknown miracle Teyla saw him as is best possible self, believed in him fully, and in this moment at least, wanted him.  Stephen vowed to do everything he could to live up to the man he saw reflected in eyes. “Well then--it’s gotten quite late, Teyla,” he told her, past the lump of regret in throat; regret for losing his head, regret for having to turn away a sweetness so willingly offered.  He allowed himself to stroke her check tenderly one last time, and then leaned back, ruing the necessity of Teyla withdrawing her hands from his neck and chest.    He stood and held out his hand to her, “We should probably head back now.”   

“Yes, of course,” she replied, placing her hand in his, her dark eyes fixed upon him, “The moon rides high in the sky, and morning cannot be far off.” And though he had not mentioned any need to be circumspect, she must’ve known it was on his mind.  “Have no worry, Stephen,” Teyla advised him, daring to brush her fingertips through the fringe above his brow, “She will keep our secret close—and when she shines again, we will remember with quiet joy, the way we tarried here.”

* * *

 They passed in companionable silence, back along the path which they had taken to the water’s edge, no longer shy should they brush against one another, by accident or design.  Instead, Teyla tucked her hand cozily in the crook of Stephen’s arm, while he shortened his stride to match her smaller gait, all the while wishing their evening wouldn’t have to end at all.  The garden had been closed to the public hours earlier, and upon reaching the exit, they discovered that the gates were locked--but that was no impediment to their departure; it only required a small magic to undo, which Stephen worked with a mere thought and a wave of his hand.  A few minutes later, they stood in a secure spot, free of any witnesses, where he could conjure a portal back to the sanctuary of Kamar-Taj, across the city.  

Stephen drew his sling ring from his pocket, thought better of it for a moment, and closed his fist around it.  “C’mere,” he said quietly, tugging her closer, “I believe we still have time for a _proper_ kiss goodnight.”  Teyla gazed up at him, starry-eyed and kiss-dazzled, her lips still tender and swollen from this first lesson in moonlight kisses.  He was glad for the late hour and the cover of darkness, for anyone seeing them together--and observing her lovely mien--would know at once what they’d been up to.  Despite his misgivings about his own behavior, he could not regret the pretty glow she wore for him now.  

 And surely he’d taught her well--for she draped her arms around his neck without hesitation, rising up on her toes a bit to better reach his lips.  Teyla settled hers softly on his at first, while running her fingers through his hair at the nape of his neck, and then parted her lips at his cue to deepen the kiss.  Thus one last time, before goodnight, he tasted her sweetness, knowing that in the dark hours that would separate them until morning, her flavor would linger in his mind and heart, and if he dreamed, she’d be there too.

* * *

Stephen awoke the next morning wearing the same sort of smile that had seen him into sleep.  He lay still for a few minutes, watching the dust motes dance in the slats of sunlight falling through his window, allowing himself to consider the sweetness of the night before, and wondering how long it might be until his path crossed with Teyla’s today.  He stretched, sat up, and decided he could very well find a way to ensure that their paths did cross, sooner than later, and imagined the quiet smile that would light her face at such an unexpected encounter.  Her smile alone would make it worth the while.

He stopped to grab a cup of coffee and a date & raisin cake in the dining hall, mulling over the conversation that awaited him once he reached his intended destination.  Stephen scanned the room quickly, and spotted Teyla seated with a group of fellow Adepts.  He let his eyes linger upon her, sending a hopeful thought along the way, testing the limits of the silent communication that seemed to have developed between them.  In only a few expectant heartbeats she had raised her face and noticed him across the room.  He watched as her eyes widened and she raised a hand in greeting—and he swore he felt the sigh she gave, as a pleasant prickling on the back of his neck, before she turned back to the conversation at her table.

Arriving at the library, he found Wong was with a Novice who Stephen didn’t recognize—not unusual, with the amount of time he spent away from Kamar-Taj.  The novice was nodding at the stern monologue being delivered by the Chief Librarian, as he piled books into the young man’s arms.  Stephen chuckled, knowing that Wong’s foreboding manner was meant to inculcate a respect not only for the physical materials on loan, but for the timeless wisdom contained within them.

The Novice scurried away with his arms full, passing Stephen without even a nod of recognition.  He called to Wong as he approached him, “Putting the fear of god in them _this_ early in the day, Wong?  Your streak remains unbroken.” 

“I do what I can, Stephen,” Wong replied, collecting a few discarded texts from a nearby table, “Though I recall it never quite worked with you.”  He quickly slid the books back into their places, then turned to Stephen, “To what to I owe the pleasure of your company this morning?”

“I’m well, thank you,” Stephen parried—delaying a few moments more, the topic that Wong might not find so welcome, “And yourself?”

“I’m fine—although I really don’t have much time for chit-chat right now.”  And _that_ would be Wong-speak for ‘ _get on with it, man’_.

“Right,” Stephen answered briskly.  Certain about what he _needed_ to say, he felt at a loss for how to exactly to begin—but Wong’s curtness would brook no delay, so that he made an awkward start, “I just, uh…well I was hoping to, uh…get your advice regarding a… _situation_ that has…developed…recently.”

“A ‘ _situation’?”_ Wong eyed him thoughtfully, “Is it something serious, or just something inconvenient?  Is there some menace to Kamar-Taj, or a threat against Earth?  Or have the kitchens just run short of yak-cheese again?”

Stephen huffed at Wong’s dry humor; he would never say so aloud, but he believed that some of his own sarcastic wit had rubbed off on the dour librarian.  He shrugged, and drew a hiss of breath through clenched teeth, “No.  No, it’s, uh…not anything Earth shattering.” He nodded to himself, treading as carefully as he could, so as not to reveal more than was necessary. “It’s of a more…personal nature…”

Wong narrowed his eyes curiously, “Personal?  Since when do you seek _my_ advice on personal business?”

 _Never_ , thought Stephen, _even though you’re one of the few_ real _friends that I’ve had in…a dozen years, at least_.  As his successes in his field of medicine had multiplied, and he had risen to prominence unparalleled by any of his colleagues, Stephen had been too driven to invest any time in cultivating friendships.  He had been too selfish and filled with his own self-importance to give of himself beyond the superficial.  Instead, he’d had admirers and a good share of sycophants seeking to ride his coattails; he’d had drinking buddies, and a series of no-strings-attached lovers—his on-again, off-again romance with Christine Palmer the only semi-committed relationship of _any_ sort, which he had managed in decades.  He’d never had the time or patience to be a true friend to anyone throughout his very solitary journey—and thus he had relied upon his own council when it came to even the thorniest of ethical questions.    

“Ah well, I guess you’re in luck, Wong,” Stephen answered with sass enough to belie the seriousness of his concerns, “‘Cuz today seems the perfect day to begin.”

Wong folded his arms across his chest, smirking and raising a single brow, waiting for Stephen to proceed.

“Okaaaaaaay,” Stephen continued, prepared for Wong’s further skepticism; _just rip that bandaid right off now,_ he told himself.  “I, um…well, I need to know…what exactly are the prohibitions regarding personal relationships here in the compound?”

“Personal relationships,” Wong repeated, any sign of potential amusement gone from his eyes, “Stephen--what are you talking about?”

Stephen took several steps closer, his hands spread wide in a show of sincerity, “To be fair, there _have_ been some unique and…pretty _extenuating_ circumstances…”

Wong continued to eye him suspiciously, his arms still crossed somberly, as he awaited the full explanation.

“…and I didn’t intend for it to happen…but it just came so…naturally…,” Stephen maintained haltingly, “…and the moonlight…well, the moonlight just…got into my blood.”  Wong remained impassive, the only hint of reaction his slightly widened eyes. “You have to understand, we’ve got a connection that’s felt far deeper than that of teacher and student…almost from the start…”  Stephen knew how it sounded—like pure rationalization.  But he also knew it was simple truth, and he realized that he wasn’t looking for Wong’s—or anyone’s--approval. 

Wong closed his eyes and shook his head.  “Teyla.  I should’ve known,” he muttered, then looked back to his friend, refraining from judgment as best he could, “What happened?”

Recalling the evening’s delicious trespass, Stephen felt a tingling warmth in his fingertips at the fresh memory of how Teyla had felt beneath his hands.  He couldn’t suppress a small, crooked smile.  “I guess it’s been building for a while now.  She’s not like any woman I’ve ever known.  She’s so…genuine,” he explained, feeling the truth of it in his soul, “She’s kind and gentle and…big-hearted…but she’s got a real strength to her. beneath the softness she shows to the world…”

Wong shook his head, frowning as he considered his reply, and Stephen ineptly rushed to fill the silence, “She’s got that empathy thing…you know?  And all along, she’s been…reading me.  Not intrusively, not intentionally.  It’s just her nature.  So she just… _knows_ things…things I’d never say.  Things I would normally keep to myself.”  He narrowed his eyes, searching Wong’s face for a glimmer of understanding.  “And just lately, there’s been this… _connection_ between us…and somehow I’m starting to read her too.  Know what she’s thinking at times...and even what she’s feeling  It’s astounding, Wong.  Words can’t do it justice.”

“And that justifies…whatever it is you’re confessing to me?”

“It’s not like that,” Stephen insisted, “Things have been different since New York.  Even in the midst of her grief, she was doing things to help _me_.”   He held his hands—still tremor free—up as an example...though the nightmare she had soothed him through was something he would _not_ share.  “There’s a deep-seated bond between us now—but I’m sure I’m failing miserably to explain it.”

Wong rolled his eyes and muttered quietly in his native Cantonese, before asking, “And you’re sure this isn’t just a case of hero worship, or one of a middle-aged man searching for his lost youth in a younger woman?”

Stephen’s reply—one that he meant to give with patience and utter honesty—died on his tongue, as a trio of Novices entered the library.  Seeing the Masters in conversation, they hurried towards a table, quieting their conversation as they moved away.  Wong motioned for Stephen to follow him, and the two men withdrew into the stacks which housed the more esoteric of texts.

“Believe me, Wong,” Stephen assured him, quietly enough that his voice would not carry beyond them, “I’ve been second guessing myself every step of the way.  But when I’m with her…”  Stephen nodded, more to himself than to his friend, “When I’m with her, everything makes perfect sense.”

Wong looked at him grimly, “Stephen, please—just tell me you haven’t taken things too far.”

Eager to defend her honor, Stephen answered in a heartbeat.  “God no—I wouldn’t.  I swear it.  A couple of evenings we walked and talked under the stars…”  And then, because confession was supposed to be good for the soul, he admitted, “And we pitched a little woo by the light of the moon—but nothing happened for either of us to feel ashamed about.”  He didn’t add that both he and Teyla hadn’t really wanted to assert such discipline.

“With her empathy,” … _and from her dreams_ , he thought, but would not say, “Teyla has seen me for what I was…my very selfish, checkered past…my stupid pride…my wealth of mistakes…and she understands and urges me to forgive myself.”  To his relief, Stephen thought it appeared that Wong’s reservations were weakening.  “Beyond _any_ logic whatsoever, she believes I’m a better man now, than I ever was.  And she makes me want to be that man, Wong…”

“You _are_ that man, Stephen,” Wong told him candidly, “We _all_ believe in you…”

Stephen shrugged, truly humbled by Wong’s assertion, “Well then—she makes _me_ able to believe in myself.  That I’m not just bluffing my way through,” he waved his hands at their surroundings, “Through all of this.”

Shaking his head, and hands on his hips, Wong paced several feet along the aisle, then back again, probably deciding if Stephen’s profession was justification enough to excuse his behavior. Wong’s earnest question came as a surprise, “What do _you_ want out of this relationship, Stephen?  At the heart of it all, what are you hoping for?”

Searching his heart, dissecting his own motives, the truth revealed itself as he found words for his reply, “I want what’s best for Teyla, Wong.  Only what’s best.”  Again, Stephen’s answer was more for himself that for his friend, “She’s capable of a multitude of miracles, and I want her to grow into her amazing potential.  I want the… _blessing_ …of watching her follow the path that fulfills her.”  His voice grew husky with conviction, “I want her to be happy, Wong— _wherever_ that path takes her…and I want to protect her as much as I can from _anything_ that would dim her bright, beautiful spirit.”

Wong remained silent, studying Stephen’s face for a while, then sighed deeply, “In that case, I don’t think a relationship between the two of you actually violates any stricture or tradition here in Kamar-Taj.  It’s never been so much a rule anyway; it’s more of a guideline easily followed by the wise and the enlightened.”    

 _Yes_ , Stephen exclaimed inwardly, thankful that his perpetually toughest critic had withdrawn his objections.

“Though I wish you had chosen more judiciously to begin with,” Wong grumbled his version of ‘I told you so’, “If this is how you honestly feel, I think you can safely remain her mentor—though allowing Teyla to do field work with you is absolutely out of the question.  That’s where you might be compromised—but you’re wise enough to know that already.”

Stephen hung his head down for a moment, relieved at Wong’s surprising indulgence, though his friend had more to add.  “I would advise you to remain prudent, however; scandal is rare in Kamar-Taj, but any advancement Teyla obtains might be seen as not having been achieved by merit alone…”

“Absolutely,” Stephen averred, eager to share his sincerity.

“And, Stephen,” Wong said, most seriously, “Keep in mind that we have a crucial alliance with Hadeeth.  If you should hurt this young woman in any way…if you break her heart...you’ll be jeopardizing a key element in Earth’s defense against dark forces across the multiverse.”

Stephen nodded vigorously, “Don’t think that hasn’t been on my mind as well, Wong…and I don’t intend to be the man to face the kind of wrath that Moraine would bring upon us, for her daughter’s sake.”  He held up his hands again, and placed his right hand on the center of his chest, “I swear to you—I swear for Teyla’s sake—I’d see these hands broken and useless again, before I’d ever hurt her.  Before I’d _ever_ hazard her precious, tender heart.”

* * *

 

Hours and hours passed until Stephen finally had the opportunity to speak with Teyla.  He had wanted to all day, but between her lessons and his own obligations, that coveted, simple pleasure proved elusive.  After dinner, he found her reading in the courtyard--from the tablet he had lent her months ago--so that he came up beside her casually, and gently nudged her arm, “Studying, honey—or catching up with a good book?”

She turned his way immediately, her face unguarded, clearly delighted that he had joined her.  “Well,” she informed him gently, “I was hoping you would find me here.”  A pretty blush bloomed upon her cheeks as she admitted in her quietest voice, “I have been unable to think of little today except…”  Teyla lowered her lashes in an honest show of bashfulness, and Stephen felt like he couldn’t breathe again until she raised her eyes back to his.  “Except for wishing you would find your way to me and hold me like you did last night.  And kiss me some more.  And…and…”  She exhaled so slowly that Stephen just _knew_ her heart was racing as much as his own, “And touch me again with your beautiful hands.”  At last, she braved meeting his eyes once more.

“Oh god, Teyla…”  How he loved how she soft she became when he spoke her name!  “This isn’t going to work if you look at me like that,” he murmured, “Especially when all I want right now is to do _exactly_ what you’ve been wishing for.”

That, of course, brought the sunshine smile, which he’d been craving all day long, to sweet fruition.  And though he was helpless at the moment to give in to the fresh ache for closer contact--which they shared in equal measure--Stephen found his patience was up to the challenge of waiting for their share of such moments that promised to leave him so happily breathless.

As if she knew exactly what he was feeling, she leaned a little closer, innocently enough, but still testing his discipline.  “Might we walk by moonlight once again, Stephen?  I have completed all my studies for the day, in that fair hope.”

“I hadn’t thought to, honey,” he murmured, watching her slightly parted lips, envious for an immediate taste of them, “But once the sun sets…well maybe we can…discretely, of course.”  So near to her, he noticed that her hair smelled of honeyed coconut, and he imagined how divine it would feel to weave his hands through it before he buried his nose and mouth against it, on his way to tasting the tender skin of her neck again.  “There’s a fruit stand three streets over from the south gate.  The awning above it is striped purple and yellow…”

“Yes, yes I know it,” she whispered, whetting her lips, making him ache for dark all the more, “I will be there as the sun’s light leaves the sky, my…”  Teyla closed her eyes, surely weighing the wisdom of calling him her own, “my Stephen.”  She stood up from her place, and nodded him farewell, and then left without looking back—as careful as she could be, to keep any eyes witnessing their meeting from inferring anything but a casual conversation, ended nearly as soon as it had begun.

Stephen swallowed hard and sighed, watching the gentle sway of her hips as she passed from the courtyard.  _Careful, man_ , he cautioned himself, already planning a longer route to the fruit stand, to avoid them meeting up too close to the compound.  He had answered Wong’s query about what he wanted, and he had honestly meant every word of his reply.  But he knew now that besides wanting only the best of things for Teyla, he wanted _her_ as badly as he’d wanted any other woman in his past.  Wanted her more, to his surprise, and with an immediacy that made his heart feel like it might pound right out of his chest.   

.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AUTHOR’S NOTES: Reminder that English is a second language to Teyla, spoken by only a handful of Hadeethans, and only when necessary for interaction with the sorcerers of Kamar-Taj. Her native tongue is much more formal than English, which accounts for her more decorous manner of speech. In the midst of strong emotions, please imagine that it’s natural for her to fall back into that pattern.

This night their eagerness had brought them to an alley on the city’s edge; it was not their usual sort of trysting place, but in their need, they had to make do.

The lovers—for that was what they had become in nearly every sense of the word—were rapt in one another, protected by the dark of night, secluded enough that the night sounds of a thriving city had fallen away, so that the quiet music of their shared passion was all they could hear.

In the days and weeks since they had begun their unlikely romance, Teyla had become the breath in Stephen’s lungs, the sustenance he craved above all other things, and the secret happiness he carried with him everywhere he went.  As far and as wide as he had to range in order to fulfill his duties as a Sanctum Master, as Master of the Mystic Arts and as  a fully committed protector of humanity, she was with him--not only in the tender memories of their private times together, but in the divine anticipation of all that lay ahead for them.  Parted from her, Stephen felt the worst impatience of his life, but bore it more patiently than he’d ever done for anything.  During those necessary separations, he yearned unstintingly to hold her and to feel the shivers of her own longing; and the passion which he ached to spend upon her, he channeled into his work—so that the enemies of Earth stood no chance of victory against him, quaking in fear before his countenance and collapsing into impotence before his righteous magic.  Though it mattered little to Stephen Strange, his reputation across the multiverse grew mightily, enough to discourage certain dark forces from engaging in battle with Earth’s most fearsome defender. 

The evening before his most recent leave-taking, Stephen had dared to give Teyla a new experience—a risk well worth the reward—a surprise dinner out at a casual little French restaurant several blocks over from Bleecker Street.  To justify her presence at the New York Sanctum, he had quietly let it be known that she had business to do with her father’s estate.  He’d told her to wear her best—which was that same peasant dress she’d worn on their first trip to the city, and entirely suitable for the evening’s outing.  She had embraced every moment of their adventure, as he squired her to the restaurant, allowing him to order for her, tasting her first champagne, and finishing their meal by sharing a decadent chocolate and caramel dessert concoction with him.  The sparkle of her eyes by candlelight, her musical giggles prompted by the champagne, and the open way in which she held his hand between the courses, were memories he would take away to warm him wherever he had to roam.

The Sanctum was as good as asleep when they returned, the retainers gone home for the night, and any Adepts in service there, retired to their quarters for the evening.  With no one about as witness, Stephen decided it was safe enough to see her to her bedroom door.  He asked her not to see him off in the morning, knowing the temptation to take her in his arms and kiss her soundly before he left, would be too great.  That had pleased her, and she agreed with a faux little pout, insisting that he kiss her soundly now, if he expected her to comply.  And that he had.

Loathe for him to leave, Teyla first thanked him for their magical evening, and then spoke frankly of her feelings.  “You woo me, Stephen, in ways I had never imagined _any_ man would wish to.  You make me feel beautiful in your eyes, and by your touch you fill me with desires I had never thought to have.”  She brushed her fingers through the fall of his hair upon his brow—a habit of familiarity of which he would never tire.  “How am I to reckon the hours you are away from me?  I feel as though you take all warmth and light with you when you go.” 

Her honesty and vulnerability had become a spell upon him; Stephen knew he was already halfway in love with her, and with every hour he spent in her company he was falling hard, and falling deep.  “Oh,Teyla,” he breathed, his voice rife with astonishment, “The best part of me remains with you—you know that, don’t you?”  He touched her forehead, just between her eyes—her Third Eye, which he had learned of from the Ancient One herself, “See me here, and know I’m only a thought away from you.  And trust that nothing in the multiverse can keep me from returning to you.”  He lifted her chin, and leaned in to kiss the tears that hung from her lashes.  “Can you do that for me, honey?”

She nodded, managing a brave little smile for his sake, and quietly broke from his gaze—his questioning gaze—to look down as she took his right hand in both of her own.  Tenderly, she traced the scars on the back of his hand; but not like she had that day she had worked her pain-relieving spell.  Her gentle touch was no healer’s touch this time—though innocent, it felt as intimate as a lover’s touch.  It was the touch he had been craving since the day he’d been forced to accept that his old life was irrevocably gone--although he hadn’t known until this moment, how badly he’d been missing it.

Stephen’s breath caught when she raised his hand to gently brush her lips across the back, before laying a soft kiss upon it. Teyla tilted her head so she could nestle her cheek against his scarred flesh, eliciting a moan of both relief and longing, from him.

She looked up at him, her dark eyes wise and solemn, a small, soft smile now playing at the corners of her mouth.  “You work wonders with your hands, my love—though few know how you protect and defend lives everywhere.  I cannot gainsay the service meant for your hands, as much as I long to have you ever near me...”

 _That’s my brave girl_ , he had thought, unprepared for her next admission. 

“…I have only ever found them beautiful, Stephen.  Your beautiful, scarred hands—they are part of what makes you… _you_ ,” she told him, wonder in her voice and on her face, “Through pain and sorrow and despair, they brought you to your destiny.”  Her smile spread, lovely as dawn after a stormy night, as she professed shamelessly, “They are the first thing that I came to love about you, on a list that grows longer each day.”

With that, she laid his hand over her heart, and then rose on her tiptoes to whisper against his ear, “And if you be moved to—one of these nights soon--I would have your beautiful hands touch every part of me at last.”  With a kiss on his cheek, Teyla withdrew, turning away without looking back, closing her door, and leaving him standing alone—wholly astounded, and dizzy with sudden joy, that so bright a soul could actually find him worthy of her love.

* * *

 _Soon_ , she had said; _soon_ , was her promise, given as gently as all things she had brought to his life.  Stephen had held her parting words close at heart all the while he had been gone.  And that Teyla had been the braver of the two of them, forthright in proclaiming that she loved him. On some level he had already known—of course he had—but to have her say it out loud was the most unexpected miracle of all.

Since his return from that last mission, an unspoken urgency had flourished between them—surely sourced in that quiet admission of her deepest longing—which threatened the pattern of caution they’d been following to keep their secret safe.  Each time they slipped away now, into their private world, he had grown incrementally reckless, his need for her pressing him always forward.  Teyla counseled him to proceed with greater care, but was helpless as he swept her along, unable to decline his will for them.

Stephen’s recklessness had brought them to this alley tonight; his hot need to hold her, to touch her, to _have_ her, overriding cooler reason.  Teyla had offered no defense, allowing him to pull her into the darkened alley without protest, within minutes of them meeting up.  He honestly hadn’t planned it this way, but the result was still the same.

Their bodies were pressed tightly together, with Teyla’s back against the coarse brick wall as she submitted herself to his hungry, bruising kisses.  She stretched her neck, humming deep in her throat at the greedy way he latched onto her tender flesh; her neck, throat, collarbone, all reddened in the flush of her desire, and from the rub of his goatee against her skin.  She flexed one hand in Stephen’s hair, and slid the other onto the delicious dip between his shoulder blades, holding him as close as the layers of material between her body and his would allow--their bodies housing no secrets from one another despite those maddening barriers of cotton and denim. “Oh my dearest…my love…,” she cooed, and then gasped his name when he palmed her breasts through her blouse. 

It wasn’t enough for him, could _never_ be enough for him now.  Stephen needed to rake up her top and feel the contours of her ribs on his way to hold her ripe little breasts fully in his hands—yet he hesitated, knowing the wall at her back would be too rough against her exposed skin.  “Do it,” she urged him, reckoning his need from his thoughts alone, “Touch me as you will, my love.  Your need is my desire as well…”  She trailed off into a heartfelt moan as he slipped both hands beneath the cloth and cupped her smoothly, rubbing her stiffened nipples with his thumbs and making her whimper helplessly. 

Teyla arched her back as he fondled her, arched into his hands, seeking his firmest contact with her virgin flesh.  He cursed inadvertently against her ear, at the sudden, gratifying heat that flared in his palms and thence to his wrists, up his arms, to course through his blood and fill his body with a flame which felt as though only she would be able to quell. Instinctively, Stephen knew this was her energy, pure as her heart, passing into him; there was no pain in this spectacular sensation, only the hunger to give back to her the same, from the depths of his heart.  “How is this happening?” he rumbled against her cheek.

“Because I love thee, Stephen,” she answered, lapsing into a patois of a Hadeethan mixed with English.  When his mouth recaptured hers, and she accepted the eager thrust of his tongue so she might suckle it luxuriously—the thrill of _that_ intensifying the throbbing ache for her in his groin—Stephen realized he was hearing her in his mind.  _I love thee…I love thee…my heart, it is thine_.  This startling intimacy awakened a need in him, a possessiveness, that shocked him.

 _You_ are _mine_ , he thought back to her, spellbound by their connection; _mine_ , he thought over and over.  _Mine tonight…and tomorrow…and always.  Let it be always, my sweet, little angel.  Good god…please…_   

And surely she heard him, even in the relentless depth of that kiss.  “ _I am, my darling…for as long as thee shall desire it of me,_ ” she promised him.  Incredulous as much from the bond of their minds, as from the miracle that she loved him as he hadn’t dared to dream _anyone_ could, Stephen gently pulled away, to study her face.  Her eyes remained shut as she panted softly, her beauty the same pure radiance he had witnessed in her astral form.

Understanding why he paused, feeling his disbelief that he was worthy of such devotion, Teyla leaned her head back enough so she could gaze up into his eyes.  Mercifully, tenderly, she reminded him, “My love, I am yours.  I have been, from our first kisses. Mayhap even before that night…”  Pictures flickered through his mind as she _showed_ him how she had come to love him. Teyla laughing at something silly he had said; Teyla looking up at him empathetically, on the corner of Bleecker and Mercer; Teyla sobbing in his arms on her father’s kitchen floor.  In a half dozen heartbeats, she showed him a slew of little moments, wherein he was simply being himself, and all of them illustrating how her heart had fallen irretrievably to him—though in those moments he hadn’t had the eyes to see that amazing truth.  There he was, on the Sanctum roof with her in the moonlight, kissing her hand with sweet reverence; there he was kissing her mouth, on one of their secret excursions from Kamar-Taj, with her face cupped in his hands, and a patience that belied how much his blood had come to burn for her.    

Overwhelmed, Stephen hung his head down, feeling Teyla’s sweet breath whisper against his cheek; he splayed his hands flat against the wall on either side of her head, trying his damnedest to collect himself.  Allowing him his silence, she waited upon him, threading her fingertips through his hairline at the nape of his neck, the palm of her hand blessedly cool upon his flushed skin.  She nuzzled his ear, to whisper against it, “Did you not know this, Stephen?  Your lips marked me as yours, on our night beneath the moonlight—as I am forever now, if you would have it so.”

Her confession left him weak, and filled him with joy—tinged with a trace of shame for the physical hunger that threatened to overrule his better nature. He wondered if she read his lust as well as she read his tenderness for her.  Did she understand how his body cried out to take her—to tear through the material that guarded her innocence, to finally breach her after the countless encounters that had sent him to his bed, unable to calm himself except by lengthy meditation?  Some nights lately, even that discipline had failed him, and he could only find sleep by picturing her lying sweetly beneath him, beckoning for him to do whatever he desired, while his scarred hands worked the deed he yearned to do inside of her.  Would she still adore him if she knew that dirty secret?

Teyla shuddered against him, sliding her arms beneath his, pulling him as close as she could, and began kissing his neck, delicately grazing his skin with her teeth.  “Yes, my love,” she murmured, drifting her hands down to his hips, “I will adore you.  I will give myself over to you…”  She ground her pelvis against his, moaning her delight at the sensation of his erection trapped between them, “Lead, and I will follow, my beloved…for I desire your satisfaction as much as my own.”

Stephen gripped her shoulders hard, lost to reason as he rained kisses upon her throat, then ripped through her light cotton top.  She wore nothing beneath but a heated flush, her nipples taut and rosy, and he grunted his appreciation before nuzzling her breast on a path to take one in his mouth.  She cried out in Hadeethan, as he circled it with the tip of his tongue, and he knew she was calling upon him to taste all of her in this way.

Eagerly—and perhaps too roughly—he drew her deeply into his mouth, testing what would please her, while rubbing his thumb hard against her other nipple.  Teyla gasped, but allowed him to progress—so that he moved his free hand down the smooth plane of her belly, daring his fingertips inside the waistband of the loose culottes she wore.  Teyla tensed as he teased his fingers lightly from hip to hip, and back, to end beneath her navel again.  Her small moan was a mix of pleasure—and uncertainty, despite her avowal of willingness.

Concerned, Stephen left off his play with her breast, and withdrew his more intimate touch.  He raised his face to Teyla’s, wanting to reassure her.  “It’s okay to tell me to stop, honey,” he promised her, “I know this is new to you—and I’m man enough to have the patience you need.”

She blinked several times, reading his truth, and then softly insisted, “But my sole wish is to please you, my love.”

He drew himself straight, beginning to master the fog of lust.  “Oh, baby, you do,” he assured her, “You please me in every smile you give me.  In the gift of every little touch.  In even the most innocent of kisses.”  And then, because her happiness was far more important to him than any gratification of the flesh, “I wouldn’t take you like this, in a back alley, fumbling through our clothing.  When it happens, I want to give you all the magic that you’ve given me.”

Relieved and grateful, she threaded her arms around his neck, peppering his skin with moist, sweet kisses.  He had to smile, had to pull her close again, chuckling devilishly—surprising her as he growled against her ear, “But, my dear Teyla, there _is_ something I would like to give you, if you would allow it.  And for this, I think this back alley will do.”

* * *

Stephen’s back was against the wall this time, with Teyla leaning against him.  The back of her head rested on his shoulder, as he landed slow, loving kisses along her neck, and exposed shoulder.  She had shyly agreed to his proposition, and had given him free reign to touch her as he wished.

He still wanted her; in fact, he still throbbed, but he had calmed enough to focus solely on his woman—knowing he’d have a raging case of blue balls once they returned to Kamar-Taj, and planning to take the coldest shower of his life.  This interlude was all about Teyla now.

She fit perfectly against him, and not for the first time he wondered if some benevolent power in the universe had fashioned her with him in mind.  That was massive hubris, he knew, but also a harmless fantasy after the trials he had endured as one of the secret defenders of Earth.  At least he could laugh at himself now, whereas his old self would have been too puffed up with his own self-importance to even grasp his own ridiculousness.

Stephen intended to take his time, to draw out her pleasure, looking forward to reaping her satisfied moans as the sole recompense for his patience—and this would be only a taste of the things he wanted to give to her.  Teyla had given him so much in the months since she had entered his life, far beyond the freedom from pain granted by her healing spell—for in her unconditional love, she was teaching him to forgive himself for a lifetime of selfishness, and showing him he was as worthy as any other soul, of being truly loved.  In touching his heart as no woman ever had, she had made his life—which was already pretty damn good—even better.

He began by leisurely drifting the back of his hands along the curve of her breasts with the barest of contact, causing her to pull her shoulders back in a bid to have him strengthen his caresses.  “Patience, honey,” he crooned, breathing her in, the light, clean scent of her skin dearer than even the most expensive perfume worn by any lover he had ever had.  Teyla exhaled slowly, a little moan escaping her as he fleetingly cupped his palms beneath her breasts, and then traced lazy circles around her areolas with just the pads of his fingers, teasing her nipples into hard peaks.  His fingers sparked with the familiar heat that flowed from her flesh at his loving touch—such warmth a gift that had already become an addiction for him.

Teyla’s body was remarkably light as she leaned back upon him; she panted softly beneath the play of his hands, while he traced his lips along her skin.  Stephen glided one hand back up to her shoulder and then trailed his fingertips along the length of her arm, still slowly enough to make her shiver. Reaching her wrist, he raised her hand to rest against his cheek and pressed open-mouthed kisses on her palm.  Teyla hummed her appreciation, and left her hand there after he released it, sinking into him while he drew his fingers along her torso to her hip, keeping her breast gathered in his other hand.  She breathed hard, giving the first of many deeper moans to come.  He circled his thumb around the tight little bud of her nipple, then scraped his nail across it, making her yelp in surprise, and nestle her body more firmly against him.  His own arousal grew stronger, the feel of her bottom pressed against his erection pure and delicious.  “Take it easy, baby,” he breathed against her ear, “You move like that too much, and I’m gonna lose it.”  She rolled her head enough so she could kiss his neck.

Still massaging her breast, and teasing her with the edge of his nails, Stephen wandered his free hand along her abdomen, and rested his fingers inside her culottes, barely touching her panties.  “This is where it gets good, honey.”  _Really, really good_ , he thought, sliding his fingers under the elastic band and feeling the downy-soft hair that covered her sex, relishing her quick intake of air and the sweet, open-mouthed groan that followed.  His voice grew a bit rough, betraying his need for her, as he asked, “Are you ready for this, baby?”   Teyla could only nod, whimpering her own need, her focus wholly on the promise of his fingers waiting there.

Stephen had always had talented fingers; dexterous as he’d learned to tickle the ivories in his childhood, brilliant as he bested all his friends at video games, masterful as he came into his own as a surgeon _par excellence_. Women had adored the way he played their bodies, craved his skill in exploring their secret places.  Even as he’d prided himself on the extraordinary surgical precision of his hands, so too he had always found deep satisfaction in bringing his lovers to climax by the touch of his hands alone.  After his accident he’d had no opportunity or inclination for any such attempts, believing that pleasure was as lost to him as the work he had felt defined him.

Trusting that her physiology was the same as women of Earth (and it _must_ be, for Moraine to have born a child of mixed parentage) Stephen cupped his fingers against her mound.  Teyla immediately pushed into his hand, spreading her legs a bit to allow him better access.  He gripped her hip with his other hand, to keep her in place, and then gently parted her slit.  She bucked hard at the first pass of his fingers on her clitoris, bucked hard against him, jarring his cock and making him groan.  He knew that he must be careful, yet the temptation to give in to that feeling remained.

“Alright, Teyla,” he told her, dry-mouthed and yearning to rub his full length against her firm bottom, sans the clothing between them, “Easy now, my sweet baby.  Let me do this for you.  Let me make you cum.”  She moaned at hearing him speak so plainly, and at the way he drew out that last, forbidden word.

She nodded again, beautifully compliant and moaning his name, her body grown tense with anticipation.  Gently at first, he ran his fingertips along her warm, moist folds, marveling at the return of his fingers’ sensitivity, and glad to give this gift to the woman that he loved.  Loving her, he found that spot, unique in every woman, that spot he knew would set her ablaze; his expert, loving touch making her thrust her pelvis in her desire for resolution, although he swiftly left off, wanting to save that pleasure for after he played with her some more.  Her panties were damp with her musk, as he let his fingertips linger at her opening, though he didn’t plan to penetrate her this first time.  She gasped hard, straining against him.  “Don’t fight it, Teyla,” he told her, “Relax and let me please you.”

It was an exacting torture to him, as she pumped her hips in time with how he stroked her.  His desire to feel her climax in his hand was equaled by the heady urge to feel her wet, welcoming warmth encompass his erection.  _Maybe_ _this wasn’t such a good_ _idea_ _after all_ , he realized—for he was on the verge of losing control.  

Teyla keened his name as he worked her towards the peak of pleasure, calling him her beloved, her mouth falling open as her body stiffened in anticipation.  He rubbed her clit harder now, in small circles, while trying to ignore his own need by concentrating on how amazing it was to feel her come undone by just his touch.  Stephen knew she was close now, knew she would burst beautifully in only moments more.  Though he needed her to still her contact with his groin, needed to pull back before _he_ reached the point of no return, he just couldn’t will himself to do it.  When Teyla suddenly slid her own hand over his, trapping his fingers beneath hers and in this way silently urging him to finish her, it was too much for him.  As her orgasm commenced, as her cries of pleasure filled his mind, it ripped a cry from the depth of his soul--her beauty in this simple act so natural and so purely for him that he came hard, despite his every intention not to, making him groan his release in communion with her own.

“Mmmmmmmm,” she purred in testament to her euphoria, trembling against him, the final spasms of her climax leaving her without strength enough to do anything but sag against him.  Teyla laced her fingers through his, still pressed against her swollen clitoris, and sent a whisper to his mind _.  I love thee, Stephen Strange.  Beyond the power of any words to_ _measure_.

Quaking in the aftermath, legs feeling like jelly, Stephen managed to stay on his feet, buoyed by quiet happiness, as much from her loving affirmation as from the physical gratification they had both experienced.  Teyla still slumped, spent and gorgeous from his ministrations, relying on his arm across her body to keep upright.  Stephen thought he would be embarrassed by his loss of control, but as he held her he felt no shame.  Only a delicious contentment, and an awareness that she absolutely held his heart in her gentle, patient hands.  He brushed his nose and mouth against her hair, dampened at the roots but still sweetly scented, and then kissed her temple.  “I love you too, honey,” he told her, certain he could simply send that thought her way, but needing to hear himself say it out loud, “I love you, Teyla.  Heart and mind.  Body and soul.”  


	13. Chapter 13

Stephen closed his eyes, letting the hot water beat against his weary body, relaxing for the first time in two days—two Earth days, anyway.  Time had moved differently for him in the Gray Shadow Dimension—even with the Eye of Agamotto hanging around his neck—so that it had felt closer to a week that he’d been fighting to repair a rip between that cursed reality and Earth’s own.  He needed the shower’s heat and the steam to work a much needed magic on his battle worn muscles, while the water sluiced the sweat from his flesh, along with the blood and little pieces of skin and flecks of bone which were all that was left of the dark creatures he had vanquished.  Earth, the solar system, the galaxy itself was safe for now, although he had been unable to discover the cause of the rip; Stephen suspected a more dark and dangerous being had been behind the assault, but he had been unable to wrest that knowledge from the hive mind of the living drones who served it.  Continued vigilance would be required.

Forty-five minutes later, he toweled himself dry, his skin slightly reddened and still stinging a bit from the hot water--a small discomfort well-worth the blessed relief of cleansing away all that muck.  Stephen shrugged himself into a faded, gray cotton tee and a well-worn pair of blue & gray striped pajama bottoms, raking his fingers through his damp hair, and decided to skip the blow dryer tonight.

He sat on the edge of the bed, setting his alarm for earlier than he’d prefer to arise— _a Sanctum Master’s work is never done_ , he reminded himself--and briefly considered mediation as a means to segue into sleep, before deciding to give in to the urge to just let his head it the pillow.  Focused on that sole desire, he nearly missed the rapping on his door.

“Shit,” he hissed to himself, knowing he could not let it go unanswered.  Yawning widely, Stephen swung his legs back over the side of the bed, and pinched the bridge of his nose--hoping the tension headache he’d been fending off for hours would abate altogether--while willing himself not to sound as irritated as he actually felt about being pulled from his hard earned chance to sleep.  “Come in,” he called out, the rough edge to his voice a mix of exhaustion and exasperation.

His call was met with a silence long enough to make him wonder if he imagined hearing anything at all.  _This better be something_ really _important_ , he thought, grunting in resignation as he stood up to answer the door, bracing himself for whatever new demand awaited him on the other side.  “Better _be_ really important,” he grumbled, reminding himself to be patient—for his unexpected visitor couldn’t know what he’d just been through.

Stephen swung the door open, and found the most pleasant surprise awaiting him.  “Teyla,” he said, fully alert in an instant, grinning his delight, and reaching for her, “How did you know I was back?”

“I did not know, my love, but had only _hoped_ to find you here.”  She bit her lip as it trembled, and blinked several times, as tears over spilled her eyes.

“What…what’s wrong, honey?”  He pulled her past the threshold, alarmed at her condition, “What happened?”

“I…I am deeply sorry to disturb you, Stephen—I know you are well beyond weary, but I did not want to leave without informing you.”   She wiped the tears from her cheeks, and gave a little shake of her head, working to regain her composure.  “I have dreamed a most fretful dream…”

Stephen brushed past her to take a quick peek outside of his door, and then closed it.   As he turned back to her, Teyla gently assured him, “I came by portal, directly to the hallway outside your door.  And I was careful, Stephen; no one marked my arrival.”

He shook his head slightly, realizing from her appearance that their secrecy was no priority in this moment.  How pale she looked, in the low light of his room; pale and shaken, but unbowed by whatever worry now preyed upon her.  He noted that she wore the shapeless, gray robe she had worn at their first meeting, though she had left her straw satchel behind in Kamar-Taj.  “You’re returning to Hadeeth,” he surmised, laying his hands on her shoulders, watching her nod solemnly.  “Why, honey?  What did you dream?”

“Oh Stephen,” she exclaimed, the shadow of fear tingeing her dear features, “Darkness…an unnatural darkness covered the land.  Forests and fields, village lanes and city streets.”  Teyla’s voice cracked, and the need to shelter her in his arms overwhelmed him.  He held her close, feeling her quake against him, as she buried her face in the crook of his neck.  “Fire rained from the sky…”

“It’s okay, Teyla…I’ve got you,” he told her, smoothing a hand against her hair, wanting to still her trembling and ease her fears, “Are you sure this wasn’t just a nightmare?”

“I am sure of nothing, except for how real it felt,” she drew a shuddering breath as she slid her arms around him and fit her soft curves against his strength, “As real as the dreams I had of your hands, in the years before I met you.”

“Was it a true vision, Teyla?”  Quietly urgent, he kept his voice low, “Maybe a warning of sorts?

“I cannot truly say if I dreamt of things to be, or of things that have already come to pass.”  She sounded and felt less frantic, but Stephen was loathe to loose her from his embrace.  “But even in the heart of the city, the People’s Citadel, where serve our lawmakers and ruling council, had been reduced to rubble, and the cries of countless injured filled the air.”  Teyla withdrew slightly, shedding the panic that had brought her to him, and looked him resolutely in the eye, “I must go, Stephen.  Whatever the case, my place is with my people…with…with…”

“Your mother,” he nodded, knowing that despite the danger that might await her on the far side of a portal to Hadeeth, there would be no dissuading her from the journey--but then she wouldn’t be his sweet, brave Teyla if that was not the case.  “I’m going with you, honey.”  As Stephen expected, she started to shake her head in objection, so that before she could utter a word, he asserted, “If things are bad as you described, you’re going to need an extra set of hands—at the very least.”

And though she had been determined to strike out on her own, he felt her gratitude fill him so sweetly that the exhaustion he’d been feeling seemed to evaporate, while she kissed his cheek and whispered her love for him against his ear.  As she backed out of his arms, Stephen was garbed in his tunic and breeches in a flick of his wrist, the Eye in place around his neck, and Cloak settling across his shoulders.  “Give me a minute or two,” he told her, “I just need to let someone here know that I’m headed off-world—and to keep a watch for us, in case we’re gone too long.”

* * *

 

Teyla had conjured the portal to Hadeeth herself, as she could visualize their destination far more easily than Stephen—though he insisted on passing through the portal first.  Bright, clear daylight greeted them, fresh air and a gentle breeze, with not a single sign of the turmoil they had anticipated.  She had brought them to the city’s edge, for safety and discretion’s sake, but the few who saw them didn’t seem to mark their sudden appearance as out of the ordinary.

Advancing several steps, Teyla stared at the modest domiciles that marked the outer boundary of her home city.  Stephen lagged behind a bit, allowing her the moment to behold that all was indeed well.  She tilted her head back as she studied the colorful spires rising in the distance, at the city’s center.  He came up beside her and laid his hand between her shoulder blades, feeling her breathe evenly, simply waiting for her to decide how they would proceed.

Bright-eyed, she turned to him, smiling amidst tears of relief, “I had feared the worst—yet all is exactly as should be.  I am grateful _and_ relieved, but I do not understand the message of my dream.”  She searched his face for some glimmer of enlightenment, “What can this mean, Stephen?”

He smoothed his thumb across her cheek, wiping away her tears and hoping to soothe her apprehension.  “I don’t know, honey—but it’s a good thing.  If all is well right now, your dream _had_ to have been a warning.  And the sooner you deliver it, the better off we all will be.”

Reassured, Teyla nodded, “Yes, that is the best thing to do—and the only thing that matters right now.”   She cast her eyes down humbly, and then looked up at him once more.  “Will you stay with me, Stephen?  The members of our ruling council are sure to have greater faith in my words, should they see a sorcerer of your renown at my side.”

“Oh, honey, you don’t need to ask.”  He leaned in to kiss the crown of her head.  “You’re stuck with me through whatever lies ahead.  I believe in you and I’m certain that your leaders will too.”

* * *

 

“First, we must seek out my Mother.  She will surely grasp the likelihood that what I have dreamt may be a true threat to our world.”  They were walking on a pedestrian path, which ran along a wide, cobblestone street.  Stephen had known from his study of the Ancient One’s records of her visits to Hadeeth, that theirs was an agrarian based economy; that Teyla’s people had made a choice centuries ago to eschew the sort of technology that was commonplace on Earth, in favor of simplicity—rather like the small communities of Shakers and Amish with which he was familiar—though the comparison ended there.  Hadeethan mores were nowhere near as austere as that of Earth’s isolated religious communities, for the humble spirituality of Teyla’s culture was based upon longstanding philosophical considerations, rather than the belief that they were adhering to a higher power’s commands.

Stephen was also well aware that the practical use of magic was as integral a part of Hadeethan daily life, as any scientific discipline.  He found the concept of such a culture appealingly fresh, compared with the constant need to keep Earth magic hidden from view; and in observing the citizens going about their daily activities--as he and Teyla traveled to the center of the city--he could easily see that her nature was a positive reflection of her culture.

“At this time of day, we will most likely find her conducting council business.”  Teyla set a brisk pace, anxious to find her mother.  “And beyond sharing the portents of my dream with her, I must also deliver to her the sorrowful news of my father’s passing.”  Stephen draped a consoling arm across her shoulders, noting the hitch in her voice at the fresh reminder of her loss.

Despite how strangely he was clothed, Stephen noted that they encountered very few stares along the way.  He guessed it was a combination of general good manners, and a familiarity with the unusual things associated with the use of magic.  As they walked, Teyla explained in greater detail the system of government in general use across Hadeeth.  About twenty minutes from their arrival point, the stood in the shadow of the People’s Citadel.

The stone-built Citadel--the tallest of the spired buildings clustered at the city center—gleamed in the mid-day sun, it’s clean, white walls threaded through with veins of glittering pink and sparkling gold.  Stephen guessed that the material was some Hadeethan version of marble, perhaps reserved for only the most significant edifices, and marking the Citadel as the all-important seat of government, or as a center of religious and social activity.  A broad, flag-stoned square lay before it; brightly colored, canopied stalls and wagon-wheeled carts lined the edges of the square, prompting him to wonder if he and Teyla had arrived on the verge of a festival.

“No, Stephen,” she told him, picking up on his thought effortlessly, confirming again the depth of the connection between their minds, “It is a market only, but one boasting the finest of wares to be found for many leagues around.  Vendors must prove the quality of their products worthy to be showcased here, and the waiting list is a long one—so that permits to do business here are granted to each merchant for only three full cycles of our moons.  But even in that brief a time, they often earn more than a full year’s wages, due to the busy traffic here.”

As they neared the stairs that led to the wide, arched entrance, Stephen noticed a breathlessness in Teyla’s speech, bespeaking her heightened anticipation of reuniting with her mother—and of delivering the unpleasant news.  He took her hand to slow her down, “It’s okay, Teyla.  Stop a moment or two, and just breathe.  And lean on me, if you need to.”  He pressed his lips to the back of her fingers, and then rested them against his cheek.

She looked up at him and nodded, before closing her eyes and drawing several deep breaths.  He felt a calm steal over her, and when she opened her eyes she told him, “Your wisdom gives me courage, my love—and you are the strength in my veins.”  Thus braced, they mounted the stairs together, and passed from the bright, warm sunlight into the cool atrium of the People’s Citadel.

* * *

 

Teyla moved swiftly now, sure of her way despite a series of turns and several short flights of stairs that left Stephen at a loss for their true direction.  They proceeded down a long hall, with archways into small rooms set at regular intervals.  Teyla stopped at one half-way down the hall.  “This chamber is Mother’s—it serves as an office, of sorts,” she explained, her voice hushed to keep from echoing through the length of the hall, “She prepares for Council sessions here, and often meets with citizens who seek her advocacy in matters before the Council.”  As they moved along, Stephen stopped to duck his head inside the entry, curious as to the character of the room.  It was simply furnished, the most striking feature a square table laden with book and scrolls. 

They paused before a set of floor length, light-weight drapes, adorned in a geometric pattern of ocean blues and grass greens, with random gold threads woven throughout.  The simplicity of the design and the colors employed had a calming effect upon the mind, surely meant as a gentle welcome to those come to do business with the ruling council.  Stephen parted the material, allowing Teyla to enter the legislative hall, before following her through.

There were few people inside the spacious chamber, some in conversation across a narrow, semi-circular table.  Stephen counted thirteen seats of equal size set around the outside edge of the table.  They spotted Moraine, as she concluded a conversation with an elderly man, before gathering several scrolls in her arms, preparing to depart the chamber.

“Mother,” Teyla whispered, and sped from Stephen’s side, eager now to reach her dearest of family.  “Mother,” she exclaimed aloud, a world of love and relief in that simple salutation.

Moraine looked up at the sound of Teyla’s voice, letting the scrolls fall back onto the table, shocked for a few moments, and then smiling amidst her surprise.  “Daughter…Teyla…” she managed a little breathlessly, spreading her arms wide to welcome her child home. 

Teyla launched herself into Moraine’s embrace, reminding Stephen of the deep bond between them, which had been so beautifully immortalized in marble by Walter Charles.  He looked down, allowing the women their unplanned reunion, focusing instead on the mosaic of tiles at his feet, a repeating pattern of blues and greens, with metallic gold highlights, similar to that of the draperies at the archway into the hall.

Moraine held Teyla by her shoulders, gazing indulgently upon her face, “But, Daughter, why have you returned to us before your time?”  Stephen would never have expected to hear such gentleness and patience from this imposing sorcereress and leader among her people—but such was Teyla’s spirit, that she inspired that in all who met her.  “Surely your training is not complete; I had not looked to see you for a season more at least.”

Moraine then looked to Stephen, “And what brings a Master of the Mystic Arts to our humble city?  If you had sent word ahead, I would have arranged a greeting more befitting a foreign dignitary.”

Stephen shook his head, embarrassed at the flattery, “That wouldn’t have been necessary, even if this trip had been planned, Mistress Moraine.  I’m here because…well, it’s best if Teyla explains.”

Moraine raised a brow, and turned her full attention back to Teyla, “What explanation can you offer, Daughter?  I see worry in the set of your brow.”  She cupped her palm along Teyla’s cheek, a tender gesture that matched her patient query.  “Tell me, please, _toura lela_ -–what troubles you so?”

Teyla looked to him, wide-eyed, as if searching for how to begin.  _Go on,_ _honey_ , he thought to her, giving her the barest of nods, _trust yourself;_ _you’ve got this_.  She squared her chin a bit, her resolve bolstered, and he guessed that she could feel his faith in her, and perhaps the import of his thoughts.   Her small, soft smile confirmed his guess.

“I dreamt most dreadfully, Mother.  Of danger from the skies, of destruction raining down upon the people.  Calamity, disaster, and despair.”   Teyla, stood, petite and dainty before the regal grace and strength embodied in her mother, and though there was barely a resemblance between the two women, Stephen could see that Teyla’s mettle was more than an echo of Moraine’s.

For ease of speech, she went on to explain to her mother in Hadeethan, and though he couldn’t understand her words, he followed the story she relayed, just by the growth of dismay upon Moraine’s face.  She questioned Teyla closely, and appearing convinced, hugged her daughter tightly.  They turned his way in unison.

“I thank you, Master Strange, for so swiftly bringing Teyla home to warn us of these ill omens.  It will be some time until my fellow council members answer a summons to return to the Citadel,” she advised him, “It may, in fact, be well past nightfall before all are gathered here.”

“Whatever help I can provide is yours, Mistress Moraine,” he told her, moving to stand across from her, along the inner curve of the table, “And the resources of Kamar-Taj are at your service, if needed.”

Moraine nodded graciously, “I expected your kind offer, Master Strange, and as our need arises, we will be grateful to redeem your promise.”  She turned to Teyla, and tutted her gently beneath the chin, “For now, Daughter, let us offer what hospitality we can to your mentor.  Please see him to our home, while I send for the Council to reconvene.”

“Yes, Mother,” she replied, sneaking a look his way, and smiling softly.

“A cold lunch will have to do,” Moraine informed him, “I hope you can forgive this inadequacy, Master Strange—with more time, I might’ve provided you with more fitting victuals, and the company of leading members of our community.”

Stephen smiled diplomatically, “No need for ceremony on my behalf, Mistress Moraine.  I’m just grateful that Teyla’s vision hasn’t come to pass, and that I may play some small part in keeping your people safe from harm.

* * *

 

Moraine held Teyla aside for a bit longer, issuing her instructions in Hadeethan, some certainly meant for her to see to his ease.  The very unexpected prospect of seeing Teyla in the coziness of her own home—and the brief span of privacy that would allow them—had him refraining from a delighted grin.  The promise of food and drink paled beside the thought of taking her into his arms, once they’d crossed that threshold.

Teyla had remained a modest arm’s length from him, while in her mother’s presence, but once they’d left the Citadel behind them, she slid her arm through his, excited to show him the comforts of her home.  Having shared the fears of her burden, she was lighter of heart, spritely as she narrated the sights along their journey, and wonderfully soft beside him—making it easy to forget propriety for just a little while.  Once behind the door of the trim, stone cottage, set on a quiet cul-de-sac several streets over from the center of the city, Stephen swept her into his arms, kissing her breathless as she boldly clung to him.

But she only allowed a few minutes of this, before she slipped from his embrace.  “You must not offer me such temptation, Stephen,” Teyla warned him coquettishly, her eyes agleam with a desire equal to his own, “Mother has charged me with preparing a meal from the foodstuffs in our larder.  Should she arrive and find that task incomplete—and the fire of your kisses reddening my lips and skin instead--her ire will be mighty.”

He grinned, teasing her back, “Then please—give me something constructive to do with my hands, honey; let me help you set the table…or something…anything, really, just to keep them busy enough to keep from touching you.”

Teyla batted her eyes and drew an exaggerated sigh, and then took him by the hand, leading him through the dining area, to the small, neatly ordered kitchen.  She pulled him along so quickly, that he barely noticed the hearth and the clay oven, before she opened the back door, revealing a garden filled with beds of flowers lovelier than any he had ever seen, and an ornamental pond shaded by several types of fruit trees.  “This is beautiful, sweetheart,” Stephen proclaimed, not at all surprised to find such a hidden treasure—for he had come to expect such delights where Teyla was concerned.

“Yes…yes, it is. A sanctuary of serenity and beauty.  I have spent many happy hours here, beneath the _ballon_ trees.”   Teyla scooped up a woven reed basket that hung beside the door, and tugged him to the closest tree, pointing out the pale pink fruit on the boughs.  “Gather me a dozen of these, at least, and you will taste a sweet refreshment soon enough.  Similar to fresh lemonade, but less tart when the _ballon_ are in season, as they are today.”  Handing him the basket, she tossed her head prettily, certain of her charms, and left him to his task.

Dutifully, Stephen filled the basket nearly full, and then returned to the kitchen.  Teyla had traded her gray robe for something lighter, bustling about the kitchen in a gauzy, purple skirt trimmed in lace, topped with a loose, sleeveless blouse.  She had gathered her hair into a sloppy bun, to keep it out of the way while she worked, a few stray tendrils curling against the pale skin of her neck.  Stephen indulged his imagination a moment, fancying how it would feel lay his large palm against the back of her neck, and tease his fingertips into her hair, to pull her close enough to kiss her endlessly and to feel the press of her firm curves against him through the thin cloth.

Teyla felt his approach, and gave him a sidelong glance, stilling her motion and casting him a gentle reprimand, “Did I not say we must behave, Stephen?  I must complete these chores before Mother arrives, and your impure thoughts are much too distracting right now.”  She took the basket from him, kissed his cheek—unwittingly making him want her all the more--and shooed him back out to the garden, promising him as he went, “Patience now, my love—and later I shall have something astonishing to share with you.”

* * *

 

Moraine arrived only minutes after Teyla had finished her preparations, and to Stephen’s surprise, she helped Teyla set the table with dinnerware and the meal itself.  She ceded the honor of head of the table to him, leaving the women to flank him, across from one another.  The crusty, multigrain bread was the perfect complement to the lightly seasoned, smoked meat and the mix of fragrant greens garnished with some peppery, olive-sized, sort of vegetable.  The _ballon_ juice was as sweet as Teyla had promised, and Moraine complimented her daughter on her cunning use of _keyanna_ nectar to balance out the saccharine.

Moraine was friendly and solicitous, inquiring about Stephen’s experiences in Earth’s defense, even before asking after Teyla’s education—and once her questions were answered, began to fill her daughter in on noteworthy developments within the city.  Stephen felt far more relaxed than he had expected to, put at ease by Moraine’s hospitality, and coupled with his own exhaustion, he let his guard down beyond any of his intentions.  Later, he would realize that Moraine had been studying him closely all the while, observing him even in his silences, and watching Teyla as well.  As innocently as each believed they carried forward, a mother’s keen, discerning eye did not miss the subtle clues to the secret between them.

Their meal finished, Moraine arose from table, speaking gently to her daughter, “Teyla, would you please clear away these things.  There is a matter of some import which I must discuss with your mentor.”

Teyla had already begun the task, answering her mother with love far more than duty.  Moraine looked to Stephen, smooth in her request to him, “Would you join me in the garden, Master Strange?  It is not meet for Teyla to be privy to this conversation.”

Stephen inclined his head respectfully, “I am happy to be at your service, Mistress Moraine.”  She swept past him with a disarming smile, and he followed her out into the garden.

Moraine moved wordlessly to the far side of the ornamental pool, leaving Stephen curious, and awakening his sense of misgiving, as he followed at a small distance.  When she was certain they were clear enough for their voices not to carry into the cottage, she rounded on him, her eyes narrowed wrathfully, so that—too late—he realized why her need for privacy had been so pressing.

“Tell me, Master Strange,” she hissed, her polite veneer torn asunder, “Tell me that I have _not_ entrusted you with my daughter’s tutelage, only to discover that _you_ are trifling with her affections!”

Stephen fell back a step or two, shocked at the venom in her voice, knowing he must gather his wits quickly now, and give answer enough to placate her wrath—and that he must not hesitate, lest Moraine draw a conclusion fraught with half-truths.

Yet how... _how_ might he answer her without revealing the full depth of his feelings for Teyla? And more importantly, what could he say or do to protect his sweet Teyla from her mother’s misplaced ire, over something that seemed to him now to have been destined for them, by years of Teyla’s dreaming of his hands, and the wealth of coincidences in the pattern of their lives, well before they’d even met?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Hadeethan endearment meaning 'little bird'


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to dedicate this chapter to glitterkitty4ever - for her constant support of my work here (and on tumblr). I do believe she loves Stephen Strange as much as I do! One of her lovely comments on this work inspired the creation of Teyla's 'telat akeylum' - so I hope they please you kitty, as much as they pleased this magnificent Master of the Mystic Arts, whom we both adore! xox

Stephen shook his head in vigorous defense, “I assure you, Mistress Moraine, there is no trifling here.”  He held his ground, straight-backed and resolute as she advanced towards him several steps.  “I swear to you that your trust in not misplaced—and that my deepest regard, and all my respect for your daughter, is honest and true.”

“Do you think me so foolish _not_ to have noticed how she looks upon you, how she hangs upon your every word,” she scoffed, her regal face contorted with scorn, “I had thought you a man of honor, Sir—but there is no honor in this!”

He took a step closer, his hands raised palms out, in a gesture of placation, while he chose his words with care, “Please, Mistress Moraine…please, give me a moment—I think you’re misinterpreting things.  If you would just let me explain…”

Her eyes flared angrily, her voice become a sharp knife’s edge, “ _Misinterpreting_? You think I am _misinterpreting_ the evidence before my eyes?”  She spat out what had to be a string of Hadeethan curses, and sneered at him.  “Shall I tell you what I see, bold-faced before me, under the very roof of Teyla’s home…of her childhood…of her innocence?”  Before Stephen could reply, she reeled off the damning evidence, “I see you look upon my child with a man’s desire, and I see an equal share of longing in Teyla’s eyes; and though you both did what you could to keep your eyes from lingering upon the other in my presence, when your gazes met there dwelt that same desire increased, like a well sunk fathoms deep and filled with your shared secrets.”

Stephen hung his head a moment, unable to deny the truth of her observation—and still she continued, “Aye, I see how it is!  The silent, little signs; how you watched her—quietly yes, but with hunger unspoken.  How carefully you avoided touching her, and she you—yet in the absence of physical contact, how you ever leaned toward one another, drawn together, as if by some magnetic force.  Do you deny this, Master Strange?”

He shook his head, though less reluctant than he had expected to be about admitting the truth.  “I cannot,” he began, “And I don’t…I don’t even want to try…”  Stephen felt a growing relief about surrendering all pretense—giving him confidence enough to be completely candid.  “Yes.  Oh yes, Mistress Moraine.  Improbable as it seems…improper and inconvenient as _you_ may find it—Teyla means more to me than…well, than anyone I’ve ever known.”

Having anticipated obfuscation and denial, Moraine appeared taken aback, so that he pressed forward, “And I know that I’m the luckiest man alive because—impossibly, astoundingly, _miraculously_ —Teyla sees way past my many, many faults, insists on seeing the best in me instead, and believes in me so strongly, that she makes me do _everything_ I can to live up to her image of me.”

Moraine blinked several times, considering his audacious claims.  “Truly?” she asked, an edge of steel still in that single word, as her gray eyes bored into his, searching his truth, seeking his measure.  She raised her chin--as she weighed his words--in a manner so like Teyla’s that he had to refrain from smiling.  “I warrant--at least—that she has given you such a gift. Sir.  For indeed it is a boon she gives quite naturally, born of her kind and generous spirit.”

At that, Stephen did smile, recalling how Teyla’s sweet kindness and unstinting compassion had opened his heart, day by day, moment by moment, until he could not help but love her.

“My daughter has always been guileless and incapable of artifice—and for the mother who loves her above all else in the world—ever easy to read,” she advised him, her fury banked for the moment, “She is, as you say on Earth, an ‘open book’.  And thus I can see that see is completely smitten with you, and that she has laid her heart at your feet.”  Moraine’s voice softened, surprisingly; became as mellifluous as any mother’s heartfelt plea, “How can I trust that you will not change as is the way of men, once you tire of her simple gifts?”

Seeing her soften, Stephen countered as humbly and sincerely as he could, sensing the possibility of Moraine's reluctant acceptance.  “Would you take my word, Mistress Moraine?  Would that be enough for you to believe me when I say that she is more precious to me than my own soul?

She moved a few steps closer, studying him intently, and—he hoped—seeing him with greater understanding, “Do you believe she is any more precious to _you_ than she is to me, Stephen Strange?  Teyla is my blood, and the meaning for every breath I draw…”

“Of course…of course she is…” Stephen concurred deferentially, hoping that her objections had begun to soften.

“…you must understand, that as her mother, it is natural for me to be alarmed by the hunger I see when you gaze upon her,” she continued forbearingly, “Though it is not quite the hunger of the wolf for its prey, remember please that this is _my_ gentle lamb in your sights.”

He gave the barest of nods, and calmly met her, eye to eye.  “I do understand, Mistress Moraine.  And I _will_ remember, and always treasure her as such.”  Stephen paused a moment, reading Moraine’s grudging indulgence, a quiet surge of gratitude spurring him to a further promise.  “Teyla is the purest, brightest soul that I have ever encountered in _any_ realm or reality. She holds my heart in her gentle hands. And I swear to you that I would _never_ do anything to dim her precious, beautiful light--just as I promise you that I will always, _always_ protect her from harm, from anything...anyone…anywhere.”  Silently considering the miracle she was, he realized with heart-piercing clarity, that he would—without hesitation--lay down his own life to keep Teyla safe, and to ensure her happiness.

Moraine drew a deep breath, a shadow of relief crossing her face, before she told him firmly, “See to it that you do, Master Strange.”  She moved to stand before him, close enough for him to mark the finest of age lines on her striking face, and that she was nearly his own height.  “Likely your vow is sincere in this moment,” she told him, “And as your reputation as one who serves the Light has preceded you, I shall stay my judgment for a time.”  She backed away and added, with a passion that reminded him of her daughter, “But see that you keep your word, Strange.  If you break her heart…if you give her any reason to despair--know that _I_ will exact a recompense which _you_ will be loath to pay.”

* * *

“She only means to protect me, you know.”  They had come to the outskirts of the city, as the cloudless sky had transitioned from bright blue, to an array of soft pinks and oranges on its way to the deep reds and dusky purples of a Hadeethan sunset.  Stephen swore he hadn’t seen such pure colors in a sunset since his youth on his family’s Nebraska farm.

“I know, honey,” he assured her, his fingers threaded through hers, as he wished their little stroll needn’t come to an end.  “And I don’t blame her at all.  I’d feel exactly the same about the situation, if I were in her shoes.”

Teyla leaned her cheek against his shoulder and sighed ruefully, “Still, I am sorry if she was harsh to you.  I swear that she seldom behaves that way.”

Stephen hummed in quiet agreement, just happy to have a little more time with her before he returned to Earth.  Following Moraine’s confrontation with him, Teyla’s mother had asked for privacy while she spoke with Teyla alone, inviting him to explore their small corner of the city, while not straying too far from the cottage.  He had agreed obligingly, though he would have liked to have seen Teyla first.  The women had been closeted for nearly an hour—and when he returned to the cottage, he found neither woman showing any sign of a tumultuous altercation, much to his relief.  Moraine had stopped short of giving them her blessing—but allowed Teyla the remaining hours of daylight to spend in Stephen’s company, stipulating that Teyla must remain on Hadeeth one night at least, so she might address the ruling council about her portentous dream.  Moraine then told them pointedly, that Stephen’s presence in the council chambers would prove an unnecessary distraction from the import of Teyla’s message.

“I believe that Mother hopes to convince me that my feelings for you may be misplaced, with my heart unseasoned as it is.  But I cannot be dissuaded, my love,” she assured him confidently, “The time has come for her to recognize at last, that I am a woman grown.  And to remind her of how it was for  _her_  when she grew to love my father.”

Stephen knew that Teyla had finally shared the news of her father’s death with Moraine, and he had tendered his condolences to her mother; she had accepted them graciously, making clear beyond words that it was a topic not open to discussion.

Teyla urged him on, “But we must hurry, my love, if we are to reach the grove before full moonrise.” Stephen could feel Teyla’s excitement over sharing something she had promised would be a wondrous sight. “Nonya will be the first of the sisters to appear, and her time is swift approaching.”

She began to pull Stephen along, as she rushed them towards the fragrant copse of trees, not far from the path to the city gate.  Along the tree line, he noted a series of low bushes, with dark green leaves and—curiously—fully closed blossoms, a deep sapphire blue at their base, which faded first to a cornflower blue and then to baby blue, and finally to white at their very tips.

“We call them  _talat akeylum_ ,” she told him, smiling happily in the growing dusk, “Moon Blossoms—for they are as children of the Sister-Moons.”  Teyla’s happy anticipation was contagious, as she leaned against him, one of her arms wrapped through his and holding on tight, while she looked to the darkening sky. “Nonya will appear first, as she ever does, and our patience will find reward.  Then you will see, my love,” she promised him, nestling her head against his shoulder, “a thing of rare and quiet beauty.”  She punctuated her promise with a soft sigh.

Stephen brushed his lips against the crown of her head, inhaling her dear, familiar scent, finally putting his prickly conversation with Moraine behind him.  He had vowed to protect her daughter’s sweet light at any cost, a mission that had already become as second nature to him.  Teyla’s happiness had become his own, just as now his heart belonged entirely to her.  “Rare and quiet beauty?  You’ve already shown me that, honey, countless times over.”  She hummed softly, surely guessing where his soft musing led.  “I only need to look into your eyes, Teyla, to see  _true_  beauty.”

“You need not flatter me, beloved,” she teased, “I remain yours, pretty words or no.”  She looked skyward once again, and gave a happy squeal. “But look Stephen,” she said, pointing toward the velvety purple heavens, with bright pinpoints of alien stars set throughout, and two far, far slivers of moons, like ghosts paled by the light of a full moon, which appeared much lower in its orbit of Hadeeth. “Look, my love, and see, just as I’ve described them…Anya, there…and Enya…and there…there is little Nonya…”

Stephen gave a low whistle, charmed equally by Teyla’s simple joy, as by the glorious sight of Hadeeth’s night sky.  “And now, the Moon Blossoms, Stephen.  Look upon nature’s pretty gift.”

He cast his eyes upon the low bushes, and his mouth dropped open in awe.  As Nonya’s light moved across the plants, each flower that it touched began to unfurl, in a delicate, silent, unexpected symphony. Teyla tightened her grasp on his arm, while he stood amazed, as the blossoms opened in seeming slow motion, their colors made more vibrant by the light they basked in.

“Breathtaking,” he murmured, thinking that of all the astonishing sights he had witnessed throughout the multiverse, this had to be one of the simplest, yet most lovely.  Or perhaps it was the beautiful magic of watching it all come to life, with the woman that he loved at his side. Whatever it was, his heart felt full to bursting, with gratitude and love as he had never felt in his entire life.

 

* * *

“Our cottage garden boasts a swell of  _talat akeylum_ as well, but nowhere near as full and fragrant as we see them here.” Teyla brushed her hand along the green leaves, and it seemed to him they reached for her, as they might reach for drops of rain on an arid day.  “And these grow in the shadow of this  _keyanna_ grove, another sight I wished to share with thee.”

Hearing her slip into her patois again, Stephen understood that Teyla’s emotions were like to overcome her.  He pulled her to him gently, and cupped her face in both of his hands, spoiling her with the kisses he had waited all day to bestow.  She pressed her small form against him, and he felt her shiver—the air around them much too warm for it to be anything but with desire.  In the quiet dark, it was easy to forget the admonishments Moraine had placed upon him only hours ago.

Somehow, Teyla managed to pull away from his kiss, looking dizzied and a little wanton in the moonlight, one thin strap of her blouse fallen away in his rush to touch her skin.  He reached for her again, repeating her name several times as though casting a spell, and feeling drunk on all the beauty around them, but most especially on her own. It was impossible now for him to see her as the ordinary woman that had arrived at Kamar-Taj all those months ago; all he could see now was the beauty of her spirit, the undisguised love for him in her dark, inviting eyes, and the sweetness that she lavished upon him at every turn.  

“Come into the grove with me, beloved,” she crooned, “That we may lose ourselves a little while in the cover of this night.”

Eagerly he followed, wondering if this was the time at last.  Did she mean to give herself to him here, beneath the perfume of the  _keyanna_  trees, under the benevolent light of the sister-moons?  It was like some fantasy he could never have conceived.

Their footfalls were muffled by drifts of soft leaves, and what appeared to be petals fallen from the trees.  In the light of day, he might have seen their color better, but in the moonlight, they appeared silvery, and as delicate as the first kisses Teyla had ever given him. Stephen inhaled deeply, filling his lungs with the bright, citrusy scent of the  _keyanna_  blossoms; their fresh, pure aroma reminded him of orange blossoms back on Earth.

His eyes adjusted quickly to the velvet dark of the grove, while Nonya’s light filtered through the canopy of flower-laden branches, dappling the peaceful scene around them with soft, random kisses of moonlight.  Stephen discerned a well-worn trail woven throughout the trees, though Teyla had already strayed from that path, guiding them up a small, grassy slope, where sat an outcropping of smooth stone.  He saw that the large rock was rooted in the earth, a natural element that some Hadeethan artistsan had then hewn and polished into a bench of sorts, a perfect complement to the tranquility of its surroundings.

Teyla led him to take a seat, and then settled beside him, speaking in a hushed tone, “This place was ever a sanctuary for me—when I needed to quiet and calm myself enough to attempt some dream interpretation.  Or to think upon my hopes and plans, considering the future I wished to forge. And even on those days when I faced the turmoil and confusion of mind and emotions, which come with the growing years.”

“Ah, adolescence,” he chuckled, “The rush of hormones, the physical changes, the impatience with one’s parents…”

“Yes, Stephen…impatience indeed,” Teyla laughed.  “Now that you have felt my mother’s stern authority, you may well imagine my impatience to claim the future I envisioned for myself!”

Stephen reached to stroke her cheek, watching her soften at his touch, letting his hand linger there. “I think you are well on your way now, honey.”

She laid her hand upon his, and kissed his palm.  “I am,” she sighed, “Your love has given me the courage to claim the future I desire. For this reason, I have brought thee here—when I have never shared this special place with any other soul.”

He smiled at her revelation, and at the earnest gratitude upon her face.  “I’m honored, Teyla—though I think you should give far more credit to yourself.”

Her tone turned flirtatious “If you say so, my love.”  Teyla broke from his gaze, breathing deeply the night air.  “I would show thee this by daylight, but it seems I must await another day…”  She seemed to hesitate while she decided whether to tell him something more.

“What is it, honey? What are you thinking?”

Turning to him, she studied his face, and lightly traced along his brow, her touch soothing him as it always did.  “I must tell you…well…I have dreamt of us, Stephen…here…beneath the  _keyanna_  blossoms.”  Her cheeks grew flushed, so that he understood this was no ordinary dream.

For Teyla’s sake, Stephen pressed his lips together to restrain a smile, pleased as much by the pretty blush of color that she wore for him, as by her quiet admission.  “As you dreamed of my scarred hands, all those years ago?”

She shook her head. “No…no, I…no…” she lowered her lashes, suddenly shy; “These dreams began only  _after_ I came to Kamar-Taj.”

He had to bite his lip to keep from grinning, “I see.  Only  _after_  we met.”

“Y…yes,” she stammered, “And their nature was far from any dreams I had ever…experienced…before.”

Stephen nodded, adoring how fetching she looked in the moonlight.  “Of a more private nature,” he surmised.  At that moment, Cloak withdrew from his shoulders and fluttered away beyond earshot, understanding even before Stephen did, that greater privacy would soon be required

“Yes.”  She looked to him again, ready to reveal all, “I thought, at first, it was because I saw you as a figure of authority…that perhaps it was my mind’s way of working out my need for you…for your approval…”

Now he let himself smile, a little breathless with delight, a little dizzy in the moonlight, remembering the times he had enquired about her dreams, and how she had avoided answering directly.

“And then,” she continued, in the same husky voice that often featured in his own dreams, “After you kissed me that first night…after you touched me…I knew that they were dreams born of my desire.”

“ _Yes_ ,” he sighed, and reached again to gently stroke her cheek with his thumb, so that she sighed and nestled her cheek against his palm.  Encouraged by his touch, she whispered, “Shall I tell thee of the most persistent of my dreams, Stephen Strange?”

“Please, Teyla,” he whispered back, caught in the spell she was inadvertently weaving, “Tell me please…and perhaps together we can make it so.”

Lightly tracing her fingers along his cheek, then threading her fingertips in his hair, she smiled with wonder, giving answer, “You lay atop me, Stephen.  Skin on skin.”  Her soft, dark eyes enforced the spell that held him rapt.  “You speak tenderly, promising to be gentle…”

“Oh god, Teyla…” he murmured, barely able to keep himself from kissing her.

“…and then…oh, Stephen…” she sighed, and closed her eyes, “…my beloved…you pierce me…and…and fill me…and we move as one…”

As ever was her way, she once again o’er threw his resolve to behave, the combination of her guileless innocence and her honesty about her feelings for him too heady for him to resist.  How could he turn aside what she now so willingly offered?  There was an irresistible magic in this secret garden, and Teyla was the source.    

Stephen knew she would allow him to kiss every part of her this night; that she would yield herself without hesitation.  Teyla clung so tightly to him, returning his rush of kisses with a fierceness she had never shown before, teasing her tongue against his, stealing his breath as he had done so many times to her, while rooting both hands in his hair.  When her mouth sought the flesh of his neck, he allowed her to pull free the lacings of his tunic, reveling as she then traced his throat with moist kisses, and groaning her name when she lingered at its hollow.

Stephen tangled his hands in her hair, on fire where she touched him, shocked as her caresses grew bolder than ever before.  “Teyla…baby…honey…slow down, please,” he begged her, while she whimpered her need for him, plucking at his tunic in a bid to feel his flesh against hers, skin-on-skin.  Skin-on-skin, as she had described from her dreams.  Skin-on-skin, as it felt like he’d been waiting for forever.  Soon his body would forget the promises he had just made to Moraine—and he would become the wolf she feared him to be.

By sheer force of will alone, he pulled away a little, enough to draw breath freely, asserting a discipline he already rued.  Carefully, he took Teyla’s face in both hands, and began to kiss her softly, forehead, eyelids, cheeks, than the softest kiss of all upon her swollen lips. Under his gentle hands, she began to come back to herself, looking at him wide-eyed, before large teardrops spilled down her flushed cheeks.  “I have behaved unseemly,” she whispered, so that he kissed her forehead again to ease her needless shame.

“You behaved like a woman in love,” he corrected her, “The most beautiful, satisfying compliment I’ve ever been paid.”  Stephen pulled her to him, smiling as he buried his face in her hair, and rocking her quietly as she continued to calm.  “Don’t’ think for one moment I’m turning you away, beloved,” he told her, using one of her endearments for him for the first time.  “Our timing is still just a little off, that’s all.  I made a few promises to your mother, and you wouldn’t have me break them so soon now–would you?”

Teyla sniffled against him, and laughed softly, “It seems she  _will_  have her way yet again.”  She kissed his neck—a comfort to them both—then sat back and began to set his lacings to right.  “But it will not always be so.”

He held her for a while longer in the moonlight, knowing soon enough he must depart.  Of all their separations, Stephen knew that this would be the hardest—for he would now be the one waiting upon a return, while leaving his heart behind him in this moonlit grove.  As he stood before the portal back to Earth, he kissed Teyla goodbye, asking her to come to him as soon as she was able, and assuring her of his devotion.  To all of this she nodded a tearful yes, unable to speak lest she begin to cry again. He waved to her before the portal closed, focused on the light that shown in her soft, doe-eyes, grateful beyond words that her light shone just for him.

 

( _to be continued_ )

    


	15. Chapter 15

Finally, Stephen slept; he’d gone nearly seventy-two hours without a wink of sleep, so that his head had barely touched the pillow, and he was out like a light, falling swiftly and deeply, exactly as the needs of his body dictated.  Likely he dreamed throughout those many hours--as the dusk outside the New York Sanctum changed first to the deep dark of the night, and then to rosy dawn, and finally to mid-day--but he did not remember them upon waking.  Only one stayed with him, and he wasn’t even certain it was a true dream--for when he awoke from it, it had seemed so vital, so true to life (and to his heart’s desires) that he wished it was reality.

In this dream—or vision…or perhaps it was a sending from the mind and heart of his woman, who remained upon her impossibly distant world—he stood in the midst of the grove of _keyanna_ trees which she had shown him before he took his leave of her.  Their fragrance was as lovely as he had remembered, surrounding him as the gentlest of breezes whispered against his upturned face and through the errant locks of hair that hung perpetually upon his brow.  He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, filling his lungs with the trees perfume, and feeling the warmth of an alien sun kiss his face.  It was good, so very good; a pause from his responsibilities and cares, a welcome respite from the burdens that he bore—not that he ever complained aloud, but some days…well, some days he wished for just a few hours without the worry that came along with being a Sanctum Master, and the constant knowing of the countless threats that existed to humanity, in all its blissful ignorance.

How relaxed he felt, how at peace, thinking this was as close to a vacation that he’d likely get in a very, very long time.  He wasn’t even wearing his usual tunic and breeches; just the same sort of casual attire he adopted on the nights when he and Teyla stole what time they could with one another, away from the confines of compound and sanctum.  It occurred to him that the moment lacked only one thing—the most important thing—the one thing that was the most crucial of all to his happiness.

As if summoned by that thought alone, Teyla called out his name; Stephen smiled, hearing her as much in his mind and heart as with his ears--as he so often did these days.  He opened his eyes to look for her, and saw her approaching from a distance, with a dreamlike grace that made his knees weak.  The bright sunlight streamed through the flower-laden branches, painting her skin with a soft, healthy glow; the wind stirred the trees gently, wafting the pale lavender petals around her, leaving some to be caught in her unbound hair.  Stephen covered his heart with his right hand; it felt so full of love and joy at the vision of his sweet woman that it seemed like it might burst, if he allowed it to.

Clad in a pale blue shift that was gathered beneath her breasts and fell in soft ripples mid-calf, Teyla walked barefoot through the drifts of fallen _keyanna_ blossoms.  Her eyes were set upon him, and she was smiling a beckoning smile, pure with her love for him, as she held out her arms to motion him closer.   “ _Stephen_ … _Beloved_ ,” she called to him, like a perfect piece of music meant for his ears alone, and as an irresistible whisper in his mind.  “ _This is the place, my Beloved; the place where I would lay with thee, beneath the bright sun, beneath the sister-moons and diamond-stars_.”  Stephen swallowed hard, awe-struck, love-struck, feeling her quiet beauty in his blood, recognizing his weakness for her, and happy that of all the souls in the cosmos, _she_ was the one that had claimed his heart.  “ _This_ , _Stephen; this is the_ _place where I would gladly give myself to thee_.” 

His dream-self recognized with a soft pang of regret that she _had_ meant it to be the place, and thus was surely no small part of the reason that Teyla had brought him to the grove, so vividly awash in Nonya’s beneficent light.  Once there, she had revealed that she’d dreamed of them together in this place; dreams in which they lay together skin-on-skin.  And swept up in that longing, she had then shown him her desire.

As he pondered the meaning of his vision—astounded at how real it felt--Teyla closed the distance between them easily, and stood before him, soft and sweet and oh so willing.  Why, Stephen could taste her willingness on the very breeze that caressed his skin, feel it in the way the sunlight danced through the _keyanna_ leaves, hear it in the rapid beating of his heart.  She smiled serenely, and with perfect understanding of everything he was feeling—including his suspicion that something, or someone, might prevent her from returning to Earth—she whispered his name as she draped her arms around his neck.  “ _Dismiss that fear, Beloved, for I_ will _return to thee—no force in the universe can keep me from your side for long._ ”  Teyla rose up on her toes—as she so often needed to do when she faced him in the flesh--to reach his lips and kiss him tenderly.

“ _Of course; how could I think otherwise?_ ” he answered, relief flooding his veins--finding her dream-form substantial enough to embrace; not the mist of some sweet reverie, but the real woman whom he ached for with every breath he drew.  “ _Am I dreaming this, or are we somehow here together?_ ”

“ _We are together, my love, in a realm somewhere between dreams and waking._ ”  How wise she was, how patient and loving; _his_ Teyla, _his_ beloved one, and in that moment he knew he’d be willing to sell his soul to have her be his forever.  “ _Oh, my love, my Stephen—know you not that I already am?_ ”  Her smile dazzled him, as he accepted the knowledge from her mind to his, that come what may, her heart had chosen him, had committed to him eternally as was the ancient way of her people; only later, as he considered his dream-vision upon waking, did he realize that Teyla’s mother had bonded in the same way with Walter Charles--which had to account for much of the beauty in his creations featuring her.

“ _Yes.  My sweet Teyla_ ,” he smiled, drawing her against him, patient enough for the future that awaited them together.  He let his face hover over hers, drinking in the purity of the love and trust reflected in her eyes, and letting it fill him to the brim, refreshing him as no twelve-hour sleep ever could.  He took her offered lips with his, slowly and softly to begin with, tasting all that she promised, her devotion, her desire.  Tasting all that she offered him; a lifetime spent at his side as lover and helpmate; as his ‘better half’ in the parlance of Earth.  Stephen had never desired such a profound connection to another soul in his old life—but now, it seemed essential not only to his existence, but to the accomplishment of his mystical purpose.

When he broke from their kiss, Teyla sighed against his lips, then buried her face against his neck, breathing him in, humming contentedly.  “ _What comes next, honey?_ ”  Stephen stroked her hair, soothing himself as much as he did her, “ _How long do you think it will take until can rejoin me on Earth?”_

She sighed hard this time, delivering regretful news, “ _I cannot say with certainty, Beloved.  To fulfill my obligation, and for the sake of my people, it may be several days._ ”  Teyla hesitated briefly, before quietly admitting that Moraine might present a further obstacle to her departure from Hadeeth.  “ _She will use every entreaty at her disposal to keep me close—but I will show her, Stephen—I will show her that I know my own mind and heart, and that I will not be dissuaded from the course I have chosen._ ”  She spoke gently, but with full conviction against his ear, _“The course that you and I have chosen together.”_

Despite her avowal, Stephen wanted to hold onto her tighter than ever—but strangely, he began to feel their embrace weakening.  Teyla answered before he could ask.  “ _I will be called to Council chambers shortly.  I regret I must turn my focus from thee now._ ”  She backed out of his arms just enough to face him squarely, “ _And you, my love, must rest yourself, return to your world, and focus on the duties that await you._ ”  She kissed him once more, and faced him with a knowing smile, before brushing her fingertips from the edge of his hairline to between his eyebrows, tracing a wee circle there.  His sight began to dim, as true sleep overtook him, and as he exhaled his exhaustion, he fell away from her arms.

* * *

 

Upon awakening—and after mulling over his dream-vision, wishing with heartfelt immediacy to find his way back to the _keyanna_ grove--Stephen’s first impulse was to check the Sanctum library for any texts that might explain his extraordinary experience.  It had been far too real to be the mere fantasy of a man missing his lover, every sensory detail vivid enough that it seemed he could still taste Teyla’s kisses on his tongue and feel her tender caress against his cheek, while he swore that his room retained traces of scent from the _keyanna_ trees.  But as ever, his needs and wants were secondary to his duties, forcing him to set that quest aside until far later in the day.

Instead, he made his first order of business sending messages along to Wong and Master Salma, explaining Teyla’s absence from Kamar-Taj, and that he could not give them a timeframe for how long she might be detained upon Hadeeth.  Though she had assured him in his dream that she would return, Stephen was left to wait—just as they were--with no clear idea of when to expect her.

His daily duties kept Stephen busy for a good part of the afternoon and early evening, so that he didn’t see himself clear to visit the library until after wolfing down a late supper.  Fortunately, his gift of eidetic memory was crucial to his research, and in less than a couple of hours, he thought he had answers enough to understand what he’d experienced.

 _Lucid dreaming_.  That seemed to be the closest explanation for what had happened.  Certainly Teyla had initiated it, across the immeasurable distances between them, enabled by her empathic gifts to reach out to him in spirit as he never could have imagined possible.  In his studies since his first day at Kamar-Taj, and through a multitude of experiences since becoming a Master, Stephen had learned how powerful pure thought could be, capable of bridging time and vast distances beyond even the speed of light.  But he had never imagined it affecting him so personally, so intimately.  And now that he knew it was possible, he hoped he might reach out to Teyla in return.

Each night that followed, he settled into bed, relaxed enough from meditation to practice the techniques he had studied, his mind and heart focused on reaching her, spirit to spirit.  But each night, to his disappointment, sleep took him before he even came close to succeeding.

By the fourth morning, Stephen’s exasperation with such failures—coupled with frustration that their separation seemed to be stretching on indefinitely—left him irritable, to carry out his responsibilities perfunctorily, while being uncharacteristically curt with those around him.  Watching over the multiverse from his privileged vantage point of the Window of the World, he was tempted for the first time to use that auspicious tool for his own benefit, to hone in on Hadeeth and discover how Teyla was faring, and if indeed there was any hope she’d be free to return to Earth soon.  Wisely, Stephen denied himself that urge, knowing that the use of magic for such a selfish purpose would ultimately rebound bitterly upon the user, and sometimes even exact unanticipated collateral damage.

On day five, his concern for her welfare far surpassed his need to have her at his side, as he imagined Moraine holding her daughter hostage of sorts, believing she was doing a mother’s service to a misguided child’s heart.    Intellectually he knew it couldn’t be so, but the tender heart Teyla had awakened within him worried all the same.  Even knowing that he might cause damage to Earth’s alliance with Hadeeth by acting rashly, Stephen had to tap into a lifetime habit of discipline—the selfsame that had forged his brilliant path to medical supremacy--to resist conjuring a portal directly to the People’s Citadel, or to the homey little cottage which Teyla called home.  This fifth day, as he went about a Master’s tasks and continued his perpetual watch for threats against humanity--all while waiting for the night to come again--felt like the longest in his memory.

Exhausted in spirit and low on optimism Stephen took to his bed, thoughts of Teyla fixed in his mind’s eye, sending everything he felt for her out into the universe.  Not trying to force his way to achieve his aim, and expecting nothing from the universe in return.  And perhaps that was the simple, missing element needed to span the realities that lay between them.

His dream-self opened his eyes, and she was finally there before him, making his doubts and concerns evaporate like thin wisps of mist by day’s new light. They stood in a moonlit meadow, surrounded by Teyla’s _talat akeylum_ , countless fragrant blossoms fully opened and nodding almost imperceptibly in the light breeze.  The night was deep around them, filled with the lulling nighttime sounds of whatever small Hadeethan creatures and insects called the meadow home.  The three moons rode high and brightly in the sky, one full, one half, and one a silvery crescent, their combined light painting the scene with lovely clarity—though that loveliness paled for him, as his eyes drank in the bewitching sight of his woman, the most exquisite blossom of them all.  _His Teyla_.  

For a moment, Stephen forgot how to breathe, overcome with awe, his heart beating like a trip-hammer in his chest.  Even clad in the simple homespun robe she had worn at their first meeting, her hair piled up in a loose bun once again, Teyla stole his ability to reason.  “ _Oh god_ ,” he whispered, memorizing the details of her face as though he’d hadn’t already committed them to memory dozens of time; he breathed hard to keep his voice from breaking with emotion, “ _I miss you so much, honey…it feels like years since I’ve touched you…held you.  Why haven’t you returned to me?_ ”

She smiled and gave a little sigh before she answered.  “ _My love--though I tarry here, all my soul is bent upon returning to your side.  To your arms._ ”  She stepped into him, and though Stephen knew they met in a realm of dreams, of spirit, the sweet, familiar scent of her hair and skin filled each breath he drew, putting to shame the fragrance of the moon blossoms around them.  He wanted to taste her scent on his tongue, wear it on his skin, embed it in his very cells.  “ _Stephen…Beloved…our time draws near,_ _and I swear that your patience with me will find true fruition._ ”  She lowered her lashes as she moved in to brush her lips on his, laying both hands against his chest.

How blessedly real it felt—and how he ached for more!  He took her face in his hands, kissing her soundly, sinking into the dream as deeply as he could.  The silk of her tongue against his, the little sounds she made in reply to his bold advances, the press of her body against him blessedly, sinfully real. 

Soon enough, he had loosed the knot on the neck of her robe and tucked his fingers beneath the material to slide it from her shoulders.  Teyla lowered her arms and shimmied the cloth away, leaving her robe to hang loose around her waist, laying her torso bare to him.  Stephen nearly growled, grown desperate with hunger, grown rougher than he meant to be, raining fierce kisses on her dainty neck and slim shoulders, relishing her surprised gasps and how readily she yielded herself to his raw need.

He planted one hand against the small of her back, trapping Teyla against him, while she wove her fingers in his hair, purring deep in her throat when he cupped her breast in his free hand.  He was certain the fury of his kisses had to be bruising her tender flesh, but she offered no complaint; she began to kiss his neck instead, her lips ever soft but insistent.  She drifted one hand down to slide beneath the sleeve of his tee shirt, massaging his flesh firmly and surprising him when she murmured against his hair, “ _Please,_ _Stephen…let me feel your skin against mine…I need to feel you…I need…_ you _…_ ”

He released her for only as long as it took to pull his shirt over his head, greedy to have her softness against him at last, no longer questioning how she could feel so real in his arms, nor how this dream, not-a-dream, surpassed _any_ erotic dream he had ever had.   

He pulled her to him, losing himself in the heated press of her naked flesh against his, in the divine sensation of her flawless little breasts rubbing against his chest, her tightened nipples evidencing her desire for him.  Teyla moaned and let her head fall back as Stephen laid open mouthed kisses upon her throat, tasting the salt of her skin upon his tongue.  She shuddered his name, sliding her arms beneath his to grip his shoulders, becoming her softest self, softly pliant as he lowered her onto a bed of moon blossoms.

He paused, hovering over her, mesmerized by her half-lidded eyes, her sweet parted lips, the quickened pant of her breath, nearly convinced that he had somehow transported bodily to her, and that Teyla lay beneath him at last, and for real.  “ _I would I were, Beloved_ , _”_ she told him, her smile bittersweet and piercing his heart, “ _I_ _would couple with thee now, have you sate yourself inside of me…_ ”  Stephen took her welcoming mouth with his, a frisson of lust hastening through his blood when she slowly traced her tongue along the inner edge of his lips.  The small part of his brain that remained rational, that knew this encounter was closer to dream than truth, was clouded by his desperate desire to know Teyla in every possible way.

“ _So beautiful, so perfect,_ ” he panted as he kissed a path down her neck to her sternum, while she arched into his hands, whimpering softly at the greedy insistence of his grasp, and crying out when he circled her areola with the tip of his tongue, then tickled the stiff bud of her nipple before drawing it into his mouth.  Teyla laid one palm on his cheek, and anchored her other hand in his hair, encouraging his play to continue.

He felt her beneath him as fully substantial; she moved against him as he touched her, arched into his caresses as lovers do, and he wondered how far they might actually go in this dream-like state—and if it was fair to Teyla to do so.  She was touching him now as she never had before, sweeping her hands across his bare skin, sparking every nerve of his body with the ache to sink himself inside her.  Stephen groaned hard, impatiently grinding his hips into hers, the thin material of his pajama bottoms unable to conceal his lust.  Frustrated as much by the layers of cloth between them as by the knowledge of the actual physical distance separating them, he exclaimed shamelessly, “ _I want you…all of you…so badly, baby,_ ” then licked his lips, craving her every flavor.

“ _I know, my love_ ,” she assured him, “ _Even in my sleep, I have felt you wanting_ _me, as far away as you are—and as I have longed for thee as well._ ”

Wanting her to comprehend the depth of his hunger, of his keen thirst for her, he raised his head enough to look into her eyes.  _“Teyla, my darling…my dear one...this is so much more than physical._ ”He read eager, equal desire in her soft, dark eyes.  “ _I need_ you _, honey.  I need your presence.  Need you at my side, filling my days with your patience and kindness…filling my heart with…with the wonder of your love.”_

She nodded in quiet understanding, drawing his face close, and kissing him tenderly, “ _Even so, Stephen; you have become the cool shadow wherein I find my soul’s ease.”_ She murmured against his lips, “ _I shall have no peace of mind, no rest until I am with thee again._ ”   

She drew his tongue into her mouth, giving such patient, gentle suction that the sensation surged through his solar plexus, his loins, his throbbing erection.  Stephen grunted into her mouth, concentrating on stilling himself, fighting the urge to come—knowing that Teyla, in her innocence, was likely unaware of the power she held over him.

He rolled to her side, pulling her along with him, allowing some small space between them as they lay face to face, space enough for him to catch his breath and to restore his reason.  Teyla blinked open her eyes, the trust there unwavering, silently signaling she would follow his lead wherever he wished.  Stephen kissed her brow, as she snuggled against him, the raging of his blood receding a bit as he traced small, soothing circles along her cheek and the side of her neck.  When he had calmed a bit more, he trusted himself to speak.  “ _When, honey?_ ”  He sounded exhausted to his own ears, worn and ready for the oblivion of sleep.  “ _When will you return to me, Teyla?  Give me some hope I can hold you…and love you…for real, sometime soon.”_

She was silent a moment, considering the most honest way to answer him.  “ _No more than two days, Beloved.  I have submitted to the repeated questioning of the Council, and they have gleaned all they can from my vision._ ”  She did not mention that Moraine had applied what pressure she could to keep her on Hadeeth, but Stephen felt the truth from her nevertheless. _“I am certain there is no more that I can do to provide for the safety of my people.”_ She moved in to kiss his jaw, unable to resist that smallest affection, while pressing one warm, soft hand against his chest.  “ _I shall leave it to their wisdom, and follow my heart back to its home.”_ Her voice quavered, and Stephen knew that she was staving off tears for his sake.  Teyla slid her hand to rest over his heart, adding softly, “ _Here, my love, is my heart’s true home.  I will not be fully myself until you hold me in your strong, loving arms.”_

He threaded his fingers in her hair, kissing her brow, feeling himself start to fade from her side, “ _I don’t want to leave you yet,_ ” he whispered, “ _I’d just_ _be happy to sleep here with you in my arms.”_

“ _I know,_ ” she sniffled, moving her hand into his hair as well, preparing to kiss him farewell, “ _But you are weary, Stephen, and cannot hold this form much longer.  I have not the strength to hold you here myself, though I would if I could—believe me, love, I would!”_ Her kiss was pure and powerful, and sent visions into his mind of all the sweetness that they would share once she returned to Earth.

A few stolen minutes more was all they had, and Stephen—his blood fully cooled--held her chastely, exchanging quiet kisses and reassurances of what the near future held for them.  Though he could feel himself withdrawing slowly from their shared dream as a sort of numbness overtook him, Stephen was surprised that Teyla faded away completely before he did—perhaps because the brunt of sustaining their connection had fallen upon her, and drained her more vitally.  But she managed in those final moments, to charge him with preparing a special place for them, a bower that might suit a hungry suitor and his willing, waiting lover.  Still caught halfway between the dream-world, and his own reality, Stephen rolled onto his back, watching wisps of clouds pass across the full moon, breathing deep the sweetness of the _talat akeylum_ —and as sleep finally stole him completely back to his body on Earth, he began to imagine what sort of place might be worthy of the sweet gift that was Teyla’s promise to him.


	16. Chapter 16

Stephen Strange, Master of the Mystic Arts, Sanctum Master (and in the eyes of many, a man well on his way to rightfully claim the title of Earth’s Sorcerer Supreme) the one-time brilliant, talented neurosurgeon whose place among medicine’s glitterati had been preordained by virtue of his magnificent brain and unflagging drive to excel beyond any others in his field, was as excited, as exhilarated, and as nervous as a bridegroom.  And he knew it too; surprised as he was, wonderfully befuddled and ironically amused as it left him feeling, he knew it in his bones—and wouldn’t wish to have it any other way.

_Nervous as a bridegroom_.  Though he had known dozens of women--in the biblical sense of the word--since his first experience at the age of fifteen (she had been a year or so older than him, and very willing to teach him a thing or two), and though he’d been ‘the first’ for several of his youthful conquests, Stephen’s past had not prepared him for the singular experience that awaited him.  With Teyla, he knew that their lovemaking would be the ultimate physical manifestation of the connection of their souls, and in that way he would be as unsophisticated as she; and that he would be following the promptings of his heart, rather than the demands of the flesh.  He wanted to do right by her in this--as in all things now—as he had rarely done for any other lover he had taken.  It was a bit intimidating--this sincere desire to make things as perfect as could be for her--so yes, he believed he fit that epithet to a‘t’.

The little phrase ‘ _pearl of great price_ ’ had been echoing through his mind since he had awoken from his dream encounter with his precious, peerless Teyla—feeling refreshed, clear-eyed, happy, and sublimely expectant of the joy promised him.  Stephen was no biblical scholar, but that passage from the New Testament was lodged deeply in his brain, as were so many from the Sunday school lessons of his youth--courtesy again of his spectacular memory.  As an adult and stalwart man of science, he’d had no use for the comforting clichés and idealistic promises of _any_ religion—but he was well-read enough to appreciate those passages from the Christian Bible that were generously sprinkled with such poetry, rife with beautiful imagery and wise perceptions into human nature.

_Pearl of great price_.  He could think of few more fitting ways to describe his beloved Teyla—for just as a pearl comes complete from the oyster, silently perfected over time into a thing of beauty pure before it even reaches the jeweler’s hand, so was Teyla a unique and completely natural treasure.  A living, breathing treasure.  Stephen had not had to give up all his worldly goods to make her his own as the man in that old parable had done in order to obtain his rare fortune—but her value was similarly beyond measure to him.  Despite a lifetime of foolishness, of selfishness, somehow the universe had seen fit to bring her into his life, at the point when he was at last prepared to value her for the true gift that she was.  That immutable fact humbled him and filled him with gratitude and wonder, reminding him yet again that life was far more than a physical journey from birth to death; it was the span of time meant to hone and perfect the Soul, to practice benevolence whenever possible, to give much more than to receive.  Coming to Kathmandu and the Mystic Arts had reeducated him enough to understand and value the power of belief in the unseen—and in the durability and constancy of his own soul.  Stephen had never thought to search for such a sweet companion for his soul—and now he swore upon his soul to value her as his pearl of great price for as long as that gift was granted him.

And so it was, with these truths embedded in his heart, that he trained his prodigious mind upon fulfilling the task which Teyla had set before him—and perhaps because his heart and mind were so awash in love from and for her—he came up with a plan with astonishing ease.

* * *

True to her promise, Teyla returned to Earth by the evening of the second day, checking in briefly at Kamar-Taj before seeking him out at Bleecker Street .  Stephen was immersed in a text on reincarnation, seated comfortably in one of the Sanctum’s cozy nooks, a mug of honeyed tea cooling on the table beside his well-worn, leather wingback chair.  He felt her presence as a ripple of happiness that radiated through his chest, so that he was not at all surprised to hear her speak his name from where she stood, several feet away.  He set his book beside the tea, then rose and held out his arms to her—caring not a bit if they were spotted together by anyone passing by.

Teyla slipped into his arms, sliding her own beneath his, melting into his firm embrace while tucking her head into the crook of his neck.  Stephen kissed the crown of her head, mumbling against the cushion of her hair, “I swear-- I’ll never let you go so far, for so long, from me again, honey.”

“Nor shall I willingly leave your side in such a way, beloved,” she sighed, warm and happy in his arms.  “And, Stephen,” she added quietly, her lips, her very breath against his neck, sending a thrill of anticipation down his spine, “I have advised my teachers at Kamar-Taj that I may be absent in the coming days, as…as I have personal matters to attend to.”

He chuckled softly, for he understood that was the closest to a white lie she could manage, dishonesty being contrary to her nature.  “I’ve made my excuses as well,” he murmured, recalling his discussion with Wong.  Stephen had informed his friend—not asked, but told him confidently, leaving no quarter for questions or objections—that he would be out of touch for several days, stressing that he had absolutely earned the right to a little down time, in the many months since necessity had rushed him into assuming a leadership role among the mystic brotherhood, despite his relatively short period of training.  Wong had stared at him inscrutably, silently taking his measure, before dourly agreeing to keep watch at the New York Sanctum for the duration of Stephen’s absence.

“I hope you’re choosing what’s best for the young lady, Stephen” Wong had added sagely, “And you must know that your secret may not remain so secret for much longer.”

“I appreciate your concern, Wong—and I assure you that Teyla’s welfare and happiness will _always_ be my first priority,” Stephen had replied emphatically, “And frankly, I’m more than ready for the world to know what she means to me.”

Wong had smiled at that, as genuine as it had been unexpected.  “She’s been good for you, my friend…and from where I stand, you’ve been good for her too.  So don’t worry,” he promised, “I’ll keep an eye on New York—but remember that even honeymoons aren’t meant to go on indefinitely.”

Stephen had flashed Wong a cheeky wink and a grin, not at all self-conscious that his fellow Master had surmised the unspoken purpose for his need for time away. 

Now that she was back in his arms, the impatience he had felt during Teyla’s sojourn on Hadeeth had melted away, leaving behind a surprisingly pleasant patience, a delicious anticipation, for the fulfillment of the promises they had exchanged.  The thought alone, of the delight she would feel when she saw what he had prepared for her, was already quietly pulsing through his veins, making him feel half his age and fully ready to take on the world—hell, the universe—for her sake. 

Teyla stretched a little, finding their natural, perfect alignment, and though she was garbed in the tunic of an Adept, Stephen felt the promise of her young, vital body—and all the heat that she had pledged to share with him--through the currant colored cloth.  She nuzzled his neck, humming softly, “I’ve missed this, Stephen.  Dreams may be lovely, but they can never be enough.”  Though he hadn’t needed it, he took it as her confirmation that they had really met in spirit, and that she was indeed prepared for the consummation she had promised him.  Reading his thoughts once again--or at least his emotions--she asked him, “What comes next, my love?”

His face still pressed against her hair, Stephen inhaled the scent of her—forever marked in his mind as hers alone—inhaled deeply enough to sate his need for the short time that remained between them and their little holiday.  “Tomorrow afternoon, honey.  I’ve just got a few things to attend to here, and then I’ll come for you.”  Teyla nodded against him, caressing his neck as she accepted his direction, “I think you should wait for me at the compound if…if you can bear it.”

He felt her smile before she spoke, amused and light-hearted, “If _I_ can bear it, beloved?”  Teyla teased her parted lips against his neck, and then grew bolder with moist kisses upon his throat, tracing her fingertips into his hair, and so easily reminding him how weak he really was in the face of her guileless desire for him.  “We shall see _whose_ need bears the wait more patiently.”

He didn’t say it aloud, but Stephen knew—inevitably--that it absolutely _wouldn’t_ be his own.

* * *

The rustic hut was furnished simply, set for their needs as best Stephen could anticipate.  A bed of plain, acacia wood, the once rickety frame bolstered with a restorative spell; the thin pallet that had lain upon it, transformed into a plush mattress, and dressed in fine Egyptian cotton sheets.  Two chairs and a small table, where he’d left a vase brimming with fresh wildflowers, to please Teyla.  An even smaller nightstand, with an oil lamp upon it, and candles on the mantle to be lit against the dark.  And though the night would bring cooler temperatures outside their modest haven, Stephen had figured that they would be warm enough inside without needing to use the fireplace, and so had laid an abundance of branches from the fragrant shrubs surrounding the cabin in the empty hearth, enough to fill the single room with their pleasant citrus scent.  A large picnic hamper well-filled to meet their appetites, sat against the wall, near the little dining table—while a sturdy net containing bottles of water, cold-brewed tea, and wine, kept cool in the stream just outside their door.  All seemed to be as perfectly ordered as he had planned.

But outside the cabin was where Stephen had worked his true magic, creating as close to an idyllic setting as he could--a gift he hoped would reflect the depth of his love for her.  He had found the abandoned hut easily, employing a modified search charm while scrying for it in a basin filled with pure, melted Himalayan snow; he had needed their simple retreat to be in a temperate climate, sturdy, safe, secluded, and near fresh, running water.  Anywhere in the world would have sufficed, for they would travel there by portal—yet happy coincidence led Stephen to a mountain-snow fed brook at the foot of the _Dorje Lapka_ peak, northwest of Kathmandu--as though the universe itself had granted approval for the course he and Teyla were set upon, providing a location near to where they had first met.  It was a picture perfect setting for their rendezvous, though Stephen made a few enhancements with her specifically in mind.

He had packed a small overnight bag, his Master’s garb neatly folded inside, the Eye wrapped in a velvet cloth--though Cloak remained in his old quarters in the Kamar-Taj compound—along with a couple changes of clothing and a few toiletries he would need.  And though he hadn’t thought too deeply about it, a box of condoms; with no clue about what Hadeethan precautions Teyla might be taking, he assumed that responsibility.  He had, in fact, felt he must do it in the old-fashioned way, no conjuring involved.  So Stephen had walked to the CVS two streets over from Bleecker Street, strolled down the contraceptive aisle, and plunked down a share of what pocket cash he had, to pay for them. 

Mid-afternoon, he sought Teyla out, where she waited for him in the library.    She was reading from her tablet again, her straw satchel on the chair beside her.  She looked up as he approached her secluded table, smiling brightly the moment she saw him, and then quickly shutting down the device to pack it away in her bag.  Stephen kept his voice low for discretion’s sake, “All ready?”

She nodded, her eyes agleam with happy anticipation, rising from her seat and coming around to meet him at the side of the table.  “Our time belongs to us alone, now.”  Her voice held a huskiness that was the precursor to the pleasures that awaited them, as he imagined her speaking endearments in the dark against his mouth, against his skin—making him feel as though his heart had suddenly skipped a beat or two.

He exhaled slowly, managing to answer without sounding too breathless, “Uh-huh…um, let me take that for you…” pointing to her satchel.  Teyla handed it over, and Stephen took a moment to settle the straps over his right shoulder, wondering why she had tied a scarf around her hair, concealing all but the ends; she had opted for her plain gray robe again, and he fleetingly speculated if she was even clothed beneath it, his cheeks and neck immediately flushing with heat at the thought.  She looked at him curiously, but if she’d caught the gist of that impure thought, she gave no indication.

As an Adept, Stephen had been reprimanded several times for conjuring a portal into the library, but as a Master, he had behaved far more judiciously—and in this case, had actually asked Wong’s permission to create a gateway to their destination from the least visited stacks in the building.  Taking Teyla’s hand, he led her through the portal, watching her intently to see her first response to the surprising beauty he had wrought for her.  Her eyes grew wider than he’d ever seen them, her pretty mouth dropped open in amazement.  “Stephen,” she exclaimed excitedly, “This is magnificent!  How is it you have found a place on Earth so nearly like my special grove on Hadeeth?”

“I’ve been hoping this would make you happy.”  Hand in hand, Stephen walked her closer to the hut, which was surrounded on all sides by low shrubs with delicate, white flowers and dark green leaves.  Teyla inhaled deeply as they came to stand near the doorway of the cabin.  “They…they smell like _keyanna_ trees!  Is this nature or some of your magic?”

Delighted by her reaction, Stephen grinned back, “A little bit of both, honey.  And all of it for you.”

Teyla threw her arms around his neck, peppering his jaw with kisses, “My darling Stephen, how wonderful of you!  I would never have imagined it.”  She pulled away enough to look up at him ingenuously, “But I have no gift for you, of equal measure.”  She lowered her eyes and added humbly, “In fact, no gift at all…”

“Oh, honey,” he told her soothingly, “Don’t you know by now that _you’re_ the gift?”  He laid his fingers beneath her chin, lifting her face to his, “Your love, Teyla…your gentleness and compassion…you, Teyla.  You’re the only gift I could ever want.”

She drew a deep sigh, studying his face, pleased with his honest flattery, and then stretched her neck enough to speak warm words against his ear, “This night, beloved, I will give all that I am, unto thee.  As my heart is thine, so shall my body be; the breath in my lungs, the spirit within my flesh, meant only…” she reiterated breathily, “… _only_ for thee.”

* * *

Stephen had carried their bags into the cabin, while Teyla remained outside, marveling at the wonder he had worked for her.  When he rejoined her, she was standing close to the bank of the clear brook, studying the bounteous pale lavender blossoms of the dozens of Royal Paulownia trees that graced the banks on either side of the water, their own scent subtle with notes of vanilla and almond.  He came up behind her, placing his arms around her waist and pulling her against him.  “This is all so beautiful, my love,” she told him, leaning her head upon his shoulder, “Please tell me how you managed this—and in so short a time.”

“I have to admit it was a lot easier than it looks, honey.”  He kissed her temple absentmindedly, humming a little in the deep of his throat at the way her body fit so readily against his.  “I did a bit of research to find Earth plants close enough to those you showed me on Hadeeth…”

Teyla nodded against him, “These trees are remarkably like those in my secret grove.  Their color is nearly perfect.  It truly feels to me like you have brought a dear bit of my home, here.”  Her soft voice was filled with gratitude and wonder, “And the perfume of those…what did you call them?”

“Mock orange bushes,” he supplied, nuzzling against the scarf that covered her hair, wishing she’d remove it soon, so he could savor the softness beneath.

“Mock orange bushes—that name seems an injustice, for they mock no one, nor anything, and their scent is pure delight!”  Her earnest consternation was adorable.  “But did you find them here—or bring them from another place?”

“Actually, I grew them,” he answered cryptically, rather proud of his ingenuity, “These trees, _and_ the shrubs around the cabin.”

“How then,” she asked again, teasing him slightly, “Oh, Master of the Mystic Arts, how are these plants and trees full-grown in less than three days’ time?”

“Welllllll,” he began, hoping she would find them no less charming after learning how they came to be, “I got them as seedlings, and once I’d planted them…well, I just used the Eye to speed their growth.  And, voila! Our own, private garden.”

She moved her hands to cover his, where they rested on her waist, her touch as warm and soothing as ever.  “The work of your beautiful hands, Stephen, always astounds me.  Few could wield that mystic tool with your power and skill—so you must credit yourself as much as the Eye for this miracle you have given me.” 

He merely shrugged, happy for her happiness, and for her ever generous regard for him.  She turned to face him, bringing her hands to rest against his chest, while informing him pertly, “There is now a thing I must attend to briefly--a Hadeethan custom which I wish to honor.”

He tilted his head, intrigued and willing to humor her.  “Please, honey...just tell me it’s something you can do right here, right now, because I really…” he stroked along her cheekbone patiently, “…really…” he drifted his fingers down to stroke the pulse point of her neck, “… _really_ don’t want to wait a single hour more for us to…”

Her voice caught as she took up his thought, and finished his statement, “Lay together as woman and man.”  He nodded, wishing he didn’t have to let her go.  Ever.  Teyla kissed the corner of his mouth, “I promise that you will not regret this brief delay.”

Stephen allowed her to slip from his embrace, immediately missing her warmth as she turned away and moved to the doorway of the cabin.  She paused before entering, looking back to him, “Face away, please, beloved—to the trees, and beyond them, to the mountain, until I have completed my preparation.  I will return to your side soon.”  Teyla smiled her softest, and then disappeared into the hut.

* * *

Stephen faced the water—looking away as Teyla had requested—watching it flow and swirl on its crooked path downstream, the last of the day’s light caught in occasional sharp glints as the clear, cool water bubbled along its way.  He was trying his best not to count the minutes, for he trusted that this final wait would be their last.

Teyla cleared her throat to gain his attention, and he turned back to her without any need for her to call to him.  He breathed out hard, held in awe by the quietly wondrous picture she made.  _Breathtaking_.  There was no other word fit to describe her.

She bowed her head, as though made shy by his unwavering gaze, and by the knowledge of all that the coming hours held for them.  The stream behind him babbled softly, a counterpoint to the swift drumming of his heart, and when Teyla raised her face again, Stephen called out her name, holding both of his hands out to her.

She moved towards him at a measured pace, and he would never have been able to say how long he seemed to wait until she came to stand before him, for his mind was wrapped up her innumerable, lovely details.  Teyla wore a circlet of tiny white flowers woven through her hair, as if nature had given her a humble crown to compliment her understated beauty; and she had traded her homespun for a fine Hadeethan fabric with the sheen and fluidity of silk, in a shade of violet that reminded him of the sky on her home world, as it transitioned from dusk into night.  The neckline of her dress plunged deeply, nearly to her waist, and the material clinging to the modest swell of her breasts was adorned with intricate, silvery needlework, as was the hem of her gown.  As she neared, Stephen discerned it was a floral pattern evocative of her cherished _talat akeylum_ , the fine stitching of the flowers and leaves studded throughout with small crystals that sparkled when they caught the evening’s fading sunlight.  Judging by the mode of dress he had seen during his visit to Hadeeth, Stephen realized Teyla’s garment was exceptionally made, and very likely with a special purpose in mind.

Teyla nodded and smiled up at him, brushing her fingertips through the hair hanging above his brow.  “Indeed, beloved.  This _was_ made for me, in the tradition of my clan.  A tradition we trace back at least ten generations, unbroken from mother to daughter for hundreds of years.”

“Well it suits you perfectly, honey,” he declared “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you lovelier.”  Unable to resist touching her, Stephen ran the tips of his fingers lightly along her shoulder and down her arm.  Teyla closed her eyes a few moments, humming quietly, her expression a soft revelation of how she would look when he touched her in full, when he took every inch of her skin unto himself. 

“I am glad that it pleases you, Stephen.”  She backed away just a little, running her hands along the curve of her waist and hips, her dark doe-eyes fixed upon his.  “I must tell you I had not expected this gift.  Like her mother before her, my mother had obtained the material some time ago, in anticipation of the day when I would pledge myself in ceremony unto my lifemate; she had worked upon it at her leisure, never guessing I would come to need it of such seeming suddenness.”  Teyla took both of his hands in hers, “And though she did her best each day that I remained upon Hadeeth, to deter me from this path, urging me to patience enough for my head and heart to cool and see reason, she had already accepted that I could not be swayed--for by night and in secret, these past several days, she worked the ‘broidery herself, so that her gift would be ready by the hour of my departure.”

Stephen couldn’t help but grin at that, both for the image of the indomitable Moraine acquiescing to Teyla as though it was a forgone conclusion—and at the realization that her act was her truest blessing upon her daughter and himself.  “I should probably thank her, the next time I see her,” he suggested drolly, thinking to draw a pretty smile from her—for as the seconds passed, he sensed in a her an increasing gravity, reflective of the momentous step they were about to take.  Stephen closed the remaining space between them, needing to touch her again.  Wanting to remind her that she could trust him in all things now.

Mesmerized by his intent, Teyla panted her reply, “You should probably not, Stephen, for…” She fell silent when he laid his palm against her neck, as he noted the rapid pace of her pulse and the heat of her delicate skin.  Her eyes fluttered shut as he stroked her cheek with his thumb, while he cupped his other hand against her face, and then lowered his mouth to kiss her tenderly.  She was trembling when their lips parted, and Stephen’s heart ached with wonder at her pale beauty, at her honest anxiousness now that their time had finally come.  “It’s okay, baby—I’ve got you,” he promised, softly pressing his forehead to hers, “You can trust in me completely, Teyla…and I swear that I’ll always… _always_ …take care of you.”

She answered breathlessly, “I have no doubt of that, my love.”  She opened her eyes, and though she still trembled, she looked up at him fearlessly, “My heart’s dearest wish is to place myself entirely in your strong, beautiful hands.”

* * *

Teyla had already lit the oil lamp and the candles on the mantle, so that the room was bathed in warm, flickering light when they entered the hut.  Now she stood before him, her head tilted back, her eyes soft and inviting, as she waited for him to begin.  Stephen smoothed his fingertips across her brow, trailing them into her hair and lingering for moments upon her little crown of flowers, soothing her into a deep sigh as she closed her eyes.  He took her face in both hands, brushing his mouth upon her parted lips, breathing her into his lungs, tasting her willingness with his tongue.  These were easily the sweetest kisses he had ever known, leaving those of all his other women behind as relics of his old life; these were the sustenance which he had not reckoned until now, that his soul had been longing for.

Teyla’s arms encircled his neck as she clung to him, molding her body to his, letting him take her slight weight in his large hands as he slid them down her back; gently, she moaned through his kisses, while dancing her silken tongue against his.  Already he felt drunk on her, though it seemed to him that his thirst for her remained infinite.  When Stephen broke from the kiss, she first gasped for air, and then sought his lips again, nipping at them, teasing them until he _had_ to answer her in equal measure.

When he drifted his mouth to kiss her cheek, and then along her jaw, Teyla let her head fall back, humming her appreciation while allowing him to paint her neck with moist kisses, arching against him, urging him on…and while his every urge was to sweep her up in his arms and lay her on the bed, to strip her bare and bury himself inside her at long last, Stephen held himself in check, determined not to let his lust overwhelm him, not to play rough with his tender, untried moon blossom.

In a bid to greater patience, he pressed his forehead to hers, exhaling slowly as he settled one hand on Teyla’s shoulder and fanned the other hand, with the lightest touch, on the base of her throat, resting his palm against the center of her chest.  He felt his breathing align with hers, the steady rise and fall of her chest the epitome of patience, of calm within the eye of passion’s storm.  She gave the barest nod of assent, discerning his intention from his touch alone, and he began to trace the intricate embroidery along the décolletage of her gown, down one side of the deep neckline and back up the other side—and finally slipped his fingertips beneath the edge of the material, running them along the soft curve of her breast.  She moaned as he cupped her breast in his palm, and as he moved to fill his other hand with her soft, ready flesh, her nipples drawn tight from his patient attention.  “You’re perfect, Teyla…so very perfect,” he murmured, “And I’m so blessed that you’ve chosen me…to be with me…to be mine…”    

Teyla was panting, enraptured as he dandled her, panting his name while kissing his temple, his cheek, the side of his neck, gripping his shirt with one hand, his shoulder with the other.  Seeking his mouth, pleading for his kisses, gasping once more when he touched his tongue to hers.  A whisper of her thoughts floated through his mind; “ _I am the blessed one,_ _beloved…ever blessed to have found the shelter of your arms…blessed beyond measure that you have come to love me…_ ”

She clung to him so sweetly, gave herself over to his caresses, gave into the growing fury of his kisses, always answering in kind.  Stephen drew her breath into his lungs, until they were both winded and needed to part enough just to breathe.

Teyla laid a gentle hand against his cheek--her skin only a little less heated than his own--and slipped her other hand into the crook of his shirt, shamelessly declaring her desires.  “Your kisses are like some sweet, sweet wine, making me dizzy, making me drunk…and thirsty still, thirsty for more.”   Stephen nodded, smiling that her choice of words echoed his thoughts, and feeling both as drunk and as thirsty as she described.  “And your touch, my love…oh your touch,” she sighed, “It is as a flame, awakening a hunger in me like none I have ever known.  A craving in even the quietest parts of me to open unto you and have you work your will upon me.”

A rosy blush had risen across her chest, spreading up her throat, to color her cheeks a paler shade than her kiss-swollen lips—and surely matching the flush of excitement Stephen felt heating his skin from the tips of his ears and down his neck.  He swore he would remember this moment with perfect clarity, forever—the pure trust and quiet innocence in her eyes and the soft lines of her face, colored with her wanting him as badly as he wanted her.  It truly _was_ intoxicating.

His hands still tucked beneath the fabric of her dress, he slid both up to her shoulders to push her straps down.  Teyla smiled as they fell away, leaving her torso bare to his hungry eyes, bare to his ravening touch.  Stephen skimmed his hands down again, along the outer curve of her breasts, filling his palms with her firm young flesh once more.  “So beautiful…” he marveled, tightening his grasp upon her, while running his thumbs a little roughly against her nipples.  She breathed hard and squeezed her eyes shut, arching into his hands, nearly growling her pleasure.

And then she was reaching for him, fingering open the buttons of his shirt, eagerly adorning his skin with hot kisses, sweeping her hands across his flesh, nearly begging him to cast his shirt away—and when he did, she pressed herself against him, professing her need for him with her body more eloquently than any words might say.

“God that’s good, baby,” he groaned, “Oh soooooo good…”  Stephen held one hand against the back of her head, while tugging her dress down past her hips, letting it slither onto the floor.  He bunched the loose fabric of the little undergarment she wore—a sort of tap pant that matched her gown, adorned with the same silver embroidery—in his other hand, greedily cupping her bottom through the cloth.  He realized he needed to slow them down now, to reach for protection now, before they went too fast for that precaution.

Teyla willingly allowed him to back her against the bed, while he breathed against her ear, “Just let me get a condom from my bag, honey, okay? I’ll be quick, I swear.”  Animal lust in the back of his mind rumbled a most indelicate thought— _and if I have my way, we’re gonna empty that entire box before we leave this place_ …

“No, Stephen…no…please…” she whimpered as he tried to seat her on the bed, “I had thought that would not be necessary.”  She perched on the edge of the bed, looking up at him.

Stephen managed to take a knee at her side—despite the insistent tautness of his jeans across his groin—confused by her appearance of disappointment.  “What is it, Teyla?  What…what’s wrong?”

She looked down and took his hands, sounding shy as she tendered her explanation, “I will follow your will, beloved, in this—but I _had_ hoped to follow the way of my people…”

He squeezed her hands gently, patiently asking, “What way is that, honey?”

“I…well…” she hesitated, fixing her eyes wide upon his, “I wish to have no barrier between your flesh and mine…no impediment to your pleasure or my own…”  She lowered her eyes a moment, confessing softly, “I so long to feel you fill me—and to have you spill your seed inside me…” 

“Oh, honey,” he replied, unable to keep from quirking a lop-sided smile at her sweet objection and even more delicious longing, “You needn’t worry about that for me.”  He brought her hands to his lips, kissing the knuckles of each in turn.  “And I want to protect _you_ ; you _can_ get pregnant from even a single encounter, you know.”

Surprisingly, she rolled her eyes, and a stubborn crease appeared between her brows, “I am a woman grown, _and_ a Healer, Stephen.  And I am well aware of the reproductive process.”  She sighed, and ran her fingers against the whiskers along his jaw, advising him more completely, “By tradition and wise practice, my people are extremely judicious in the choosing of lovers and potential mates.  We are not so cavalier about it as many of the cultures of Earth are…”

“Uh-huh,” he nodded, patient for her sake--in spite of the heated depth of his desire--and fully open to Teyla’s point of view.

“…and our women are most especially cautious regarding this sacred topic, taking great consideration before laying with _any_ man.”  She shrugged, having arrived at the crux of the matter, “As I have done for weeks and weeks now, reflecting upon what it will mean to lay with you…”

“I…I see…” he murmured, moved by the profound meaning she had placed upon their physical consummation.

“Yes,” she whispered, a little breathless, before concluding her gentle argument, “I believe--as my people do—that a part of the joy in the physical union between woman and man, is the knowledge that love can lead to the creation of new life.  I am ready for whatever lies ahead, certain in my bones that the risk is well worth the reward.”  She held her breath, and then made her final plea, “Beloved mine—might you please assume this beautiful risk with me?”

The man he was before Kamar-Taj would have turned away; he had always chosen his lovers carefully, certain they would eschew the complication of an unwanted pregnancy as equally as he.  Gazing at Teyla—his sweet, his gentle, his giving Teyla—the idea of her bearing his child kindled something in his heart he had never anticipated; a longing for a tie that binds; of a becoming more than his solitary self.  And that she was willing to chance conception because she found him worthy to father her child…somehow made him want her all the more.  He exhaled slowly, transfixed by the gravity of the moment, “I will, beloved mine…I will gladly accept the risk, for love of you.”  Kneeling as a supplicant before her, he assured her, “And I’d welcome the responsibility of a child, if that came to pass.”

Teyla’s smile--as she wrapped her arms around him, burying her face in the side of his neck--was simple, unadulterated sunshine…and Stephen believed he could be happy to live in that light forever.


	17. Chapter 17

Stephen knelt at her feet, his arms snug around Teyla’s waist, the enticing heat of her bare skin against his own the beginning of the bliss that would be theirs to share and explore in the nights and days ahead.  Now that they had surmounted all the obstacles that had stood between them, he was surprised that he needn’t strive for patience on the way to their fulfillment—for his heart became his guide, overruling his baser desires for the sake of the gentle woman in his arms.  Passion, hunger, unabashed lust, would all play out in their own good time upon this simple bed, inside this plain room, quietly contained within this abandoned little cabin, in the shade of the mountain’s timeless majesty and the shelter of the fruitful blossoms and green leaves of the trees, which Stephen had brought to life to please her.  But first he would love her slowly, softly, and ever mindful of the privilege of being the first man to know her intimately; he would be her teacher once more, as well as the lover who revealed to her the wonders of the flesh.

Teyla was nuzzling his neck, breathing her warmth and willingness upon him, while brushing her parted lips against his skin.  Stephen threaded the fingers of one hand in her hair, gradually urging her head back a bit so that he could look into her eyes.  She sighed and gave him a little smile, pure in her unwavering trust.  He tucked two fingers beneath her chin, to bring her mouth to his, savoring her with quiet, gentle kisses to begin with, then prompting her lips open with the tip of his tongue.  Still he was gentle, as he explored her mouth, teasing her tongue with his, loving how she ceded herself to his lead, while relishing the little sounds she made, and the soothing way she ran her hands through his hair.  Finally breaking to gasp for air, Stephen leaned his forehead on hers, “I love you, Teyla…and with every kiss, and even your lightest touches, you make me love you more…”

She nodded against him, humming in agreement, “My heart was thine before we shared a single kiss, beloved.”  Her voice was husky with the depth of her emotions as she added, “I live in these hours for your touch…for the promise of our bodies united at last.”  She laid a palm over his heart, “As you say you love me, Stephen, then love me true.  Please…please love me now.”

Her plaintive plea moved him from his knees, to stand only so long as it took him to slide off his loafers and shuck off his jeans.  Teyla watched him aptly, her mouth dropping open a bit at this first sight of him in just his boxer-briefs, her eyes registering the hard bulge concealed there, before she looked up at him.  By some instinct mixed with curiosity, she reached out to touch him, though he stopped her hand before she made contact; he wanted to take his time, and in her gentle artlessness she might set him aflame without meaning to.  Instead, he sat beside her on the bed, and rested her trembling hand against his cheek.

Teyla studied his face a moment, and drew a hitching breath.  “You must bear with me, Stephen,” she bid him haltingly, “Please…for except with those I have needed to examine as a Healer…and…and those few Earth boys who briefly sought to court me…I…I have never really touched a man…”  Stephen stroked his thumb against the back of her hand, trying to quell her hesitation.  “And I have never, ever…in…in the way I am _needing_ to touch you now…”

Her honestly and vulnerability had him beguiled, and in reply he folded her hand in his, moving in to kiss her brow, seeking to allay her misgivings, to show her that she was more than enough for him.  Teyla had closed her eyes as his lips hovered near, and he took her face in his hands for a deep, tender kiss, hoping to reassure her; he let the kiss dissolve, and she remained still a moment, eyes shut, her face soft from his silent, loving answer to her concern.  “Teyla, sweetheart—you just need to trust your instincts.”  His voice was low, and rich with his perpetual wonder that she had chosen him.  “However you touch me, I know it will be heavenly, because it will come from your heart.”

Her confidence thus bolstered, Teyla’s expression lightened with relief, and soon enough she was kissing him; his mouth, his cheeks, and casting the softest kisses upon his throat, while running her hands along his shoulders and upper arms, sparking his flesh with the quiet magic that lived in her fingertips.  Stephen buried his hands in her hair, absorbed in the gentle thrill of her lips pampering his flesh—until the urge to lay her back upon the bed was irresistible.

Propped up on his elbow, Stephen leaned over her, closely considered her dear features; the forthright invitation in her soft, dark eyes; the smooth, flushed curve of her cheeks; her rosy lips, plumped from delivering him such tender kisses.  He couldn’t help but smile, remembering how plain and forsook she had seemed to him upon their first acquaintance—and how her every detail had become a cause of joy to him now.  Now that her inner light shone unabated, now that his eyes beheld her astonishing truth.  Teyla smiled once again, surely catching the train of his thoughts, and breathed a deep sigh.

Stephen began skimming his fingertips upon her cheek, and then along the line of her jaw; she closed her eyes again, sinking into the sensation.  He teased his way along her neck, and then down the center of her chest, watching as her breathing deepened, as her mouth fell open with a soft moan.  Her nipples were already drawn tight, ruddy with arousal; she gasped at the instant of his touch, gasped and panted as he played with her, arching up to meet his fingers.  All her being seemed focused on his touch, and when he took her ripe flesh fully in his hand, Teyla lolled her head to the side, moaning from the back of her throat.

Touching her so, Stephen pondered not only the softness of her virgin skin, nor only how rapt she appeared to be in his caresses, but also the fact that the renewed sensitivity of his fingers, and the absence of pain in his hands, were gifts of Teyla’s empathetic magic.  How fitting it was that he could use his ruined hands to bring her such pleasure now!

Her breathing remained slow and deep under his loving ministrations—and though his mouth watered for a taste of her, and to explore her inch by inch with his lips and tongue, Stephen still refrained—knowing that once his restraint was breached, his needs might have him play too rough with her.  Teyla looked back to him, dazed prettily and smiling softly, so that he couldn’t resist tracing her sweet lips with his thumb.  She encouraged him on by parting her lips just a little, making him shiver when she touched the tip of her tongue to his scarred skin, a heady invitation to which he just had to succumb.  Stephen slid his thumb into her mouth, stroking the surface of her tongue, while she closed her lips around it.  “Oh gawwwwwwd,” he whispered, delighting in her moan, and in the sudden undulation of her hips in time with his strokes.  He kissed her brow, nearly growling, “Baby, you can’t imagine the things you’re making me feel right now…”

She gave a low moan, trailing her fingers down the center of his chest; down, down, down to his waistband, then pressed her palm against his erection.  He nearly shot out of his skin, as much from her surprising boldness, as from the delicious feel of it.  He forced himself to slide his thumb from her mouth, wanting to—needing to—focus on Teyla alone, on teaching her patiently to read her own body’s cues, and on taking her as gradually and as gently as she so deserved.

“Let me please you, Stephen,” she implored him, flexing her palm against him, likely—in her naiveté--unaware of the flush of heat which her simple movement sent through his groin, “Show me what I may do, my love…”

He groaned, aching with the need she aroused, and then closed his eyes to concentrate on what he longed to do for her.  He kissed her brow again, and then between her eyes before answering, “In a little while, honey; we have hours and hours ahead for that…but first, I want to touch you.  As gently as I can…”

“As in my dreams…” she replied breathlessly, mesmerized by his manner with her.

“Yes, baby…as you dreamed…”  Stephen felt breathless himself, with both desire and wonder.  “And we’re gonna take our time.”  She whimpered softly, surrendering herself to his will.  “You trust me, Teyla, don’t you?”

“With my life, Stephen,” she affirmed without hesitation, “With all that I am.  Always.”

He paused a moment more—for her hand laid against him, even through his briefs, was pure heaven—before he removed it, laid a kiss upon her palm, and placed it against his neck.  He kept his eyes on hers, reading her need and the honesty of her love, and her trust in him, in their sweet depths.  Stephen started at the hollow of her throat with the barest contact, tracing her skin in a slow, sinuous pattern; across her collarbone, then along her breastbone, lingering to cup her breast briefly again, thrilling at her delicious gasp when he circled her stiffened nipple with the flat of his thumb.  Teyla swallowed hard and nodded, flexing her fingers against his neck, while smiling sweetly up at him.  Her absolute trust made him breathless again, and eager to give her…everything.  Everything that he could.  Everything that he was.

Stephen meandered his hand ever downward, his fingers as gentle with her as he’d promised, tracing each rib, the soft cup of her navel, the modest curve of her waist and onto her hip, and he suddenly needed to kiss her, needed to fill his mouth with her essence, needed her to know that his heart beat for her now, only for her.  He groaned when she opened her mouth beneath his, eagerly suckling his plump bottom lip, dizzying him with intensified need to have her, to take her in full.

Panting, Stephen pulled out of the kiss, murmuring against her mouth, “… _my sweet little angel_ … _my beauty_ … _my heart_ …”

“Your words are as the purest honey, my love,” she murmured back, “I could live upon their sweetness forever, and know no hunger but to draw them ever from your lips.”  How at peace she looked, how calm and patient, gazing up at him fearlessly—while Stephen’s blood pounded with the immediacy of his desires, every inch of his skin alive with the need for her soft flesh, every nerve set ablaze at even their smallest contact with her skin.  If she read in him such fierce desperation, she showed no sign.

But then Teyla nodded in silent indulgence—as though granting him leave to take her however he willed—while threading her fingers through the hair above his brow, then lightly tracing the cup of his ear, and ended by laying her hand on his chest, over his heart—making him feel as though it now kept it’s beat at her bidding alone.

She spread her fingers wide, closing her eyes and breathing in time with him as she caressed his chest, gasping in soft surprise when she felt one of his stiffened nipples, touching it tentatively at first, and then rubbing it firmly.  Feeling his moans rumble from the center of his chest, she gained a new sense of the power of her touch.  “Yes, baby,” he declared, “If it feels that good to you, it’s gonna feel even better to me…”

Emboldened by his affirmation, Teyla’s eagerness to please him found swift expression; she stretched her neck enough to lay a path of moist, insistent kisses upon his throat and all along his collarbone, and soon eased herself into a position to kiss her way across his chest, only stopping to linger deliciously on his pecs; the warmth of her breath, the softness of her lips, the play of her tongue upon him patient and thorough.  Teyla grew bolder still, surprising him, pleasing him, taking his nipple into her mouth while languorously coasting a hand to his hip, pulling him against her, and then whimpering at the feel of his hard cock caught between them, against her thigh.

Stephen lingered above her, his sharp desire to slowly, purposefully treasure her tender flesh in conflict with his mounting lust to have her, have her at once.  Itching to touch her, explore her, know her, he massaged one breast to her delight, finally lowering his mouth to softly brush his parted lips upon the other, the warmth of his breath wetting her skin before he circled her areola with the tip of his tongue.  Teyla exhaled a long moan, and thrust herself up into his mouth, gasping when he slowly tasted the hard bud of her nipple, patiently teasing his tongue against it.  He closed his lips around her, drawing her deeper into his mouth, gentle in knowing this was all new to her—while the feel of her against his tongue quickened the heat in his blood.  She nested her hands in his hair, greedy for his play upon her—and shivered when he pulled his mouth away, as he breathed upon her dampened skin, and then kissed across her sternum, to lavish equal attention on her other breast.

He shifted his eyes as he suckled her, as she pressed herself against his questing tongue; shifted his eyes to her face, needing to see the pleasure painted there.  In her bliss, Teyla had bared the tender expanse of her throat to him, unknowingly beckoning him to partake of her there.

She gave a little whimper when he left off, but accepted the moist kisses he scattered upon the lovely blush of her chest and throat, sliding her hands from his hair to cup his face as he hovered over her.  “Beloved,” she breathed, offering up her mouth.  Stephen whet his lips, sealing them upon hers with a searing kiss, while leaving only a whisper of space between their torsos.

They dwelt in the kiss for uncounted heartbeats, and Teyla clung to him as if for life itself--eventually urging him completely atop her, her need to be flesh on flesh undeniable.  Stephen groaned into her mouth, his own need heightened by the heated press of her curves beneath him.

He drifted one hand along her ribs to her waist, then into the cool cloth that covered her hip, not hesitating at all to tug the silken material down.  Teyla shifted enough to allow him to slide them off her completely, moaning her sweetest when he splayed his fingers wide across her smooth thigh; she bent her knee, letting her leg fall to the side, giving him leave to nestle there, his cotton briefs all that was left between his erection and her heat. 

She gasped hard when he ground himself between her thighs, writhing against him while sliding one hand between them, finally daring her fingertips past the waistband of his briefs.  She moaned at her first contact with the coarse curls of his pubis, moaned harder as she finally touched the tip of his cock, moaned in unison with him as he jerked into her touch.  Stephen allowed her to fondle him in exploration—all too briefly—the thrill of it pulsing along his shaft and into his testes as he struggled against growing too greedy, too soon.  “That’s…ahhhhhh…amazing, baby,” he rasped, “But you gotta take it easy on me…please…or I’ll go off like a rocket…”

“As you wish, my love,” she purred, slowly withdrawing her hand, and sliding it to rest against his hip, still inside his briefs.  She nuzzled his neck again with insistent kisses, murmuring against his skin, “But please, Stephen… _please_ …I desire _all_ of your flesh…as I know you desire mine.”

“Yes…god yes,” he exclaimed, moving off of her enough to pull off the last layer between them.  Teyla watched, wide-eyed at her first, true sight of him, breathing heavily, reaching for him and unashamedly wrapping her hand around his shaft.  He lost himself in the heaven of her grip, hanging his head beside hers, denying his need to thrust, panting against her ear, “Okay…okay, honey…now…now let go for a bit…and I need…I need to touch _you_ …”

As ever, she complied with his instructions—his instruction quite desperate now—and she hummed her throaty reply as he settled his palm on the downy curls at the juncture of her thighs, and laid his fingers upon her exposed slit.  Wanting so to please her, needing to be sure that she was ready for him, Stephen advised her lovingly, “I’m going to touch you now, honey, beyond how I’ve ever touched you before…and I swear I’ll be as gentle as can be."  Teyla was softly nodding, her lips quirked into a small, knowing smile, so that he remembered once again her dreaming this exact moment between them.  _You speak tenderly, promising to be gentle_ , she had told him, _and then, my beloved, you pierce me, and fill me—and we move as one_.  A thrill of certainty sparked in his chest, with that further confirmation that their destinies _were_ meant to be entwined—and now it merely remained for him to fulfill his promises to her.

Teyla stretched beneath him—her softness a supple and heady temptation—and crooked one arm above her head, her expression languid, dreamy, trusting.  She was breathing deeply, relaxed as though hypnotized by his intent.  Stephen slowly traced the short path down to her wet threshold and slid just the tip of his middle finger inside her.  She gave a quick gasp and blinked up at him, before encouraging him with a little nod.  She was deliciously slick, and he probed her with ease—enough to discover that the thin membrane of her hymen was still intact, spurring him to even greater caution.  He leaned down to kiss her tenderly before speaking.

“Teyla, baby,” he breathed against her sweet mouth, his heart pounding in divine anticipation, “You’re ready for me.”  His voice roughened at the thought of what came next, “So very, _very_ ready.”  She hummed in agreement, lost in returning his kisses—though she whimpered when he withdrew his finger.  “I know, honey…I know,” he assured her, “We’re almost there now, but…but you need to know it still might smart a bit when I…when we finally…”  Stephen trailed off, unsure of how to express his concern, “…I don’t want to hurt you, so we’re gonna…gonna keep it slow and easy.”

“Oh, Stephen,” she sighed, brushing her tender lips against his, “I have placed myself in your strong, beautiful hands every moment on our way to this—you need not fret for my comfort.”  Her voice broke, tremulous with longing, “I can feel your love in each touch of your breath upon my skin; your goodness in every caress.  Fill my body now, beloved, as you have filled my heart—to overflow with the joy of being utterly… _yours_.”

With that catalyst, Stephen knew he needn’t wait any longer; never taking his eyes off Teyla’s face, he spread her thighs further apart, and took his place at last between them.  Obligingly, she angled her hips to accommodate him, while bending her other knee and opening herself to him completely--and moaning delectably at the heated press of his stiff, full length between her moist folds.  He leaned above her, his hips snugly pressed to her hers, while resting most of his weight on his hands; Teyla slid her arms beneath his, holding onto his back.  She hissed softly as he finally broached her, as the enflamed head of his cock met, and then broke through the thin tissue of her maidenhead, while he restrained himself from going any deeper just yet.  Biting her lip and nestling her head deeper into the pillow, she seemed to hold her breath a few moments, then released a moan of mixed pleasure and relief, her dark eyes widening as she accepted this new, remarkable sensation.  He kept his eyes patiently fixed upon hers, attentive to even the smallest signs of what she was feeling, the muscles in his thighs bearing the strain of his patience.

Aware of his need from every point of contact between their bodies—and by virtue of her nature, surely reading his feelings as she so often did—Teyla whimpered softly again amid slow, shallow pants, her mouth dropping open as her eyes fluttered nearly shut.  “Are you alright, baby?” His voice was low and rough with the effort to keep his lust at bay; all for his Teyla, only for her.  “Is this good for you, honey?”

She answered with a small nod and a low moan, deep in her throat—enough to encourage him to push himself a bit further into her wet pussy; it was exquisite torment, lingering this way, his every urge to thrust into her fully vying with his determination to make this first time perfect for her.  That small advance drew from her a longer moan, and a hint of a smile.  “Yes,” she affirmed breathily, “Oh, my love, yes…”  Stephen lowered his face to take her lips in a tender kiss, and when Teyla rolled her pelvis in invitation beneath him, he filled her as fully as she had asked.

He grunted in relief with his first several thrusts, holding her gaze steadily, fascinated by the adoration in the soulful depths of her eyes, thrilling at each hard exhale she gave over each time he buried himself to the hilt in her welcoming heat.  Stephen set their pace with deep, patient thrusts, finding Teyla to be a most apt student, as she learned his rhythm and discovered that her own movements could bring pleasure to them both.   He would cherish forever the music of her crooning his name, as he seated himself fully inside her, as she encased him as gloriously as he had been imagining, and even more so.  “Love you, baby,” he growled against her ear, spending hot, open-mouthed kisses along her jaw and throat, tasting the salt of her skin on his tongue.

At times he varied his strokes, discovering those which pleased her best from the intensity of her gasps and moans, and in how she squirmed beneath him, thrusting her pelvis upward seeking deeper penetration.  Teyla drifted hungry hands to his hips, and then to his loins, holding on tight, greedy for every inch of him.  “Yes,” he rasped, his chest against hers slick with sweat, lost in the moment, lost in their combined heat, “Yes, I know what you want, baby…just…just wrap your legs around my waist,” he prompted her, caressing her thigh as he helped her settle around him, and grunting against her shoulder at the divine sensation in the change of angle, and the way her muscles pulsed around his swollen, straining shaft.  Stephen breathed hard, groaned harder, loosing himself in her eager persuasion.  “Mmmmm…yeah…” he moaned, burying his face in the crook of her neck, “…oh christ, Teyla…that’s…ahhhhh…mmmm…perrrfect…”

Her every sigh, her gasps and moans as he loved her, were the most perfect music he had ever heard—and seemed to be the music he had been waiting for, over countless years.  He opened his eyes, needing to see her perfect beauty, to find Teyla’s were tightly shut, her lashes wet and her lips atremble as she struggled—it seemed to him—against some strong emotion.  Concern for her sake replaced all other thought, and he stilled himself completely.  “What’s wrong, honey?  Have I…have I hurt you?”  Stephen’s heart thunked, and remorse filled his chest; he would never be able to forgive himself if she admitted the worst.

Teyla’s eyes were soft, when they flickered open, moist with unshed tears, but full of the love that had become his sustenance.  Her breath hitched once more, as her answer sprang gently from her lips.  Wonder-filled, she told him quietly, “Not in the least, my love; not for a moment…”  The tears she had tried to hold back spilled along the curve of her cheeks, wetting her pillow.

“But why are you crying, Teyla,” he asked, confused and ready to give her whatever comfort she might need, “I don’t understand…please, honey…please just tell me what to do…”

“Oh, Stephen,” she sighed, laying a hand on his cheek, “Beloved, how could you know?  _I_ had never imagined it would be like this, so how could _you_?”  He felt at a loss, breathless as he waited upon her answer, wondering how everything had felt so perfect as though ordained by heaven, how he had thought her body was urging him forward every moment, and now fearing that in reality he had somehow imposed upon her selfishly.

Her eyes widened at she understood his alarm, and she raised her face enough to kiss him warmly, and then spoke against his mouth, “My love, my life…you need not fear; for a moment, be still and let yourself feel what I am feeling.  Know my bliss as your own; as yours has become mine.”

Incredulous, he closed his eyes again, shooing all thought and concern from his mind.  In their place, he felt his veins begin to flow with a sublime rapture that rose above their physical connection--and knew its source was Teyla’s heart.

“Yes, my love,” she whispered, “And what you feel from me now is only a glimmer of what I feel from you.” 

He could barely speak, overwhelmed by the perfection of their bond.  _Empathy_.  It was her empathy at its unintended but most powerful peak.  Teyla nodded and lay back, her smile exultant, illuminating, devastating, “I had not been prepared for this.  I feel everything… _everything_ , Stephen.  Not only my love and desire for you.  Not only my joy in our union.”  She drew a deep, shuddering breath, looking up at him clear-eyed, “But what _you_ are feeling as well.  Your pleasure, your love, your joy.  Everything that you feel for me, Stephen. In my flesh…” She drew him flush against her, “…my bones…”  She ground her hips against his, sending an electric thrill from his belly to his balls, pulsing through his cock, “…my blood…”  Teyla laid her mouth on his, telling him whisper-soft, though no less powerfully, “I feel your love in every cell of my body, as indescribable ecstasy...I feel your love inside my soul..."

Marveling at her revelation, Stephen felt his own soul was stripped naked, certain that she knew that as well—and that he would gladly entrust his immortal soul to her gentle, loving care.  The physical rapture of their lovemaking could not rival the bliss he felt in the union of their souls.

But he was close to the end of his endurance now, and felt Teyla building toward her climax as well, reading in the staccato of her moans how close she was to peaking.  How badly he wanted that for her, to give her such pleasure as she had never known.  Most of his consciousness became focused on their most intimate connection, wanting to prolong the ecstasy for both of them, but also knowing he would climax soon himself.  He realized that Teyla had moved her arms again, one wrapped tightly around his back, the other against his shoulder so she might anchor her fingers in his hair.  Teyla keened in her patois of English and Hadeethan as she bucked her hips up into his—and somehow he understood every word, as she proclaimed her love for him, begging him to take her, take her as his, as his now and forever.  She was straining beneath him, bathed in a fine sheen of perspiration, frantic as she ground against him, and dizzying him as she gave every ounce of herself over to him.  “Come for me, baby,”  he urged her hoarsely, knowing he had already passed his usual limit; yet his ache for her satisfaction to precede his own remained, keener than any moment before, “I need to feel it, Teyla, baby…ah, god…I need _you_.”

Her pelvis lifted off the bed, as she cried out his name, her legs tightening around his waist, and she grew rigid as he pumped his hardest; buried inside her, Stephen felt her crest, and somehow drove himself deeper, seeking to touch her very essence, and in doing so, pulled an inarticulate cry from the seat of her soul.  Then she was blossoming around him, in glorious waves of pleasure surrounding him, and Teyla moaned her release from a deep place in her chest as her orgasm took her completely.  The walls of her womb contracted around him exquisitely, and Stephen thought fleetingly that if he died in this moment, his life had been _perfectly_ spent to have gained such communion with the soul destined for him--and he came with furious abandon, grunting through his release, fused with his sweet, beloved woman, his gentle healer, his soul’s true mate…his forever, if fate would allow it. _His Teyla_.

Weakened in the best of all ways, Stephen hung his head beside hers, catching his breath, drained yet filled to the brim, deliciously weary yet joyfully exhilarated; feeling her body relax beneath his, listening to her breathing slow and even out.  Teyla was shaking from their exertions, the divine after throes of her muscles milking the last of his spend unto herself.  Her cheek against his was damp, and he didn't need to check to know that she was softly crying.  He peppered her face with kisses, whispering his love with every breath, and she tightened her hold around him, clinging again to him as though to keep herself tethered to their little world, until at last her gentle sobs abated and her trembling ceased.  Loathe to part from her for even a moment, he fell away nonetheless, touched at the little moan she gave at that inevitable separation.  He laid beside her, and Teyla turned into him, nestling in his arms, spoiling his neck with tender kisses.  "My little angel," he whispered into her hair, "Are you well?  Tell me what you need, my beloved…"

He felt her smile before she spoke, not only against his skin, but in his mind and heart, "All is well with us, beloved.  My joy in you knows no bounds.  You have fulfilled me as I never dared dream in all my life." 

Teyla sounded blissful and sleepy and absolutely perfect to him, as he cradled her head against him, and though she did not ask him how he fared, he was content, knowing that she _already_ knew, could _feel_ every moment of his happiness.  They lay in lovely silence, hearts and minds in sync, for many minutes, many moments passing without need for speech--until she spoke again, the very thing he had been thinking.  "Indeed, my love, you may call it so.  This _is_ the end to all the loneliness you have ever felt, and I swear upon my life, that I will fill every day and night that lay ahead for us, with assurances that you need never be lonely again."

Holding her, Stephen accepted her promise, letting it sink into his bones, even as Teyla began to drift to sleep--and as he drifted himself, thanking the universe for this gift which he still swore he could never truly deserve, but would cherish forever as no mortal man had ever cherished woman.  


End file.
